Chapter 7 - Morning At The Foundation Tower
The morning sun cleared the polished glass of the Vance Foundation tower at precisely eight-fifteen, throwing long, pale rectangles across the walnut floor of my private dressing suite. Clara sat cross-legged on the velvet sofa, a pristine bowl of dry cereal balanced in her lap, her white stuffed rabbit propped up beside her against the armrest. Her eyes were fixed on the muted television screen in the corner where local news anchors traded silent, practiced smiles.
"Stay here, Clara," I said, adjusting the cuffs of my charcoal shirt before sliding my suit jacket over my shoulders. "Marcus is outside the door. He’s going to bring you some apple juice in a few minutes. Don't open the door for anyone else."
She didn't look away from the cartoon mice chasing across the screen, but her small hand reached out, fingers closing instinctively around the rabbit's long white ear. "Mrs. Bella coming back?"
"No," I said, my hand resting on the heavy brass doorknob. "She isn't."
I stepped out into the hallway, pulling the heavy oak door shut until the latch caught with a solid, weighted click. Marcus was standing against the opposite wall, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh fluorescent strip lighting overhead. He straightened immediately, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"The board members are already seated in the main executive boardroom, Mr. Vance," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a dry murmur. "They're reviewing the quarterly logistics merger for the shipping division. Mr. Sterling phoned twice from the downtown office. He wants confirmation on the floral arrangements for Saturday before noon."
"Tell Sterling the arrangements are being handled," I said, walking briskly down the carpeted corridor toward the double mahogany doors of the boardroom. "And Marcus—pull the internal security logs from two nights ago. The exterior bay and the ground-floor freight elevator."
Marcus paused, his stride faltering for a fraction of a second before he recovered his rhythm to keep pace with my shoulder. "Security logs, sir? Is there an issue with the archives?"
"Just pull them," I replied, my hand pushing open the heavy mahogany doors. "I want to know every badge scan recorded between midnight and four in the morning."
The boardroom was stifling, smelling faintly of expensive espresso, dry parchment, and polished mahogany. Twelve men and women in tailored suits sat around the long conference table, their expressions fixed on digital tablets and bound financial reports. At the head of the table sat Arthur Pendelton, the senior managing partner, whose white hair and permanent scowl had anchored the Vance Foundation through three decades of market shifts.
"Julian," Pendelton said, not bothering to look up from his spreadsheet as I took my seat at the opposite end. "We’re waiting on your sign-off for the European subsidiary restructure. If we don't file the tax exemptions by close of business, the penalties will eat into the Q3 reserves."
I opened the leather folio before me, though my mind was fixed entirely on the small wooden box locked inside my office safe and the diary pages detailing Elena’s final months in the cottage. "Let's review the asset distribution for the shipping division first, Arthur. I want to see every subsidiary account opened under the Vance name over the last five years."
Pendelton frowned, peering over the rim of his glasses. "We audited those accounts during the merger, Julian. They're standard holding vehicles. There's nothing unusual there."
"Humor me," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the polished wood. "I want a complete accounting of every discretionary fund managed outside the primary foundation ledger."
A low murmur rippled across the table. Before Pendelton could answer, the side door clicked open and Marcus stepped into the room, his face mask-like as he slid a folded sheet of heavy cardstock onto the corner of my blotter. My eyes flicked down to the printed text.
Access badge 0482—Bella Vance. Entered via subterranean freight elevator at 02:14 AM. Exited via ground lobby at 02:48 AM.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the mahogany table until the grain bit into my skin. Bella had been in the building while Clara was asleep in the office. She had used her executive clearance to bypass the lobby guards, heading straight for the lower archives where the grandfather clock stood.
"Julian?" Pendelton’s voice cut through the hum of the air conditioning. "Are we proceeding with the subsidiary restructure or not?"
I stood up slowly, buttoning my jacket, my gaze fixed on the grey-faced board members who knew nothing of the life I had buried or the child sitting twenty yards away eating cereal in a dressing gown.
"The restructure is on hold, Arthur," I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the room's sudden tension. "I have an urgent client crisis that requires my immediate attention in the private suite. Marcus will reschedule the remaining agenda items."
May you like
Before Pendelton could object, I turned on my heel, leaving the startled board members staring after me, and strode out of the boardroom toward the heavy oak doors of my office.
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