PART 2
“That can’t be true,” I said.
“Don’t believe me because I said it. Check it yourself.”
Vincent held the silver piece without stepping closer. I demanded to know how he had known Walter. He explained that my father had audited the payments of one of his trucking companies and discovered transfers to an organization called the Bridgeway Foundation. Gerald Whitaker, Grant’s father and a financial partner in that company, had authorized the movements.
“And you?” I asked. “You had nothing to do with it?”
“My company collected inflated contracts. I signed balance sheets without asking the questions I should have. When Walter warned me, my first thought was to protect my business.”
His answer didn’t inspire trust, but at least he wasn’t pretending to be innocent.
“If you knew all that, why show up now?”
“Because money has started moving through the same foundation again. And because today I heard Gerald asked to get Walter’s filing cabinet back.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Someone who works for me saw Grant come in here and let me know. I shouldn’t have arrived the way I did.”
I refused to let him pay for my groceries. The cashier let me set aside a box of cookies, and I paid for the essentials with my own card. Vincent waited outside without trying to stop me from leaving. Before we parted, he handed me his half of the compass and the phone number of Joan Pruitt, an attorney who had advised my father.
“I don’t want you to owe me anything,” he said.
“Then don’t decide things for me again.”
I took the bus to my apartment. On top of a bookshelf sat the wooden filing cabinet Grant had so often wanted to throw out. I took out my compass. On the back there was a tiny slot. When I joined it with the other half, two inscriptions appeared: “317” and “F47.”
It wasn’t some magic mechanism. Walter had engraved numbers to remind me where to look. In folder 317 of the cabinet I found a green notebook and a sealed envelope. Page forty-seven listed four transfers, made six years earlier, from one of Vincent’s trucking companies to the Bridgeway Foundation. There was a signature attributed to Walter, but the last letter of his last name was drawn backward. My father never wrote it that way.
Inside the envelope was a sheet in his handwriting:
“If you’re reading this, don’t hand the notebook to any Whitaker or to Vincent. Find Joan. Ask who ordered the payments, not just whose name appears on them.”
There was also another letter, yellowed, mailed from Madison, Wisconsin, years earlier. I recognized the name at the bottom: Helen. My mother. According to my father, she had died in an accident when I was five. The letter was dated long after her supposed death.
“Walter, lying to Tessa doesn’t protect her. I want to see her. You can’t keep deciding for both of us.”
I sat down on the floor, my legs ice-cold. My father had hidden two different truths in the same piece of furniture. I wanted to call Vincent and demand explanations, but I remembered the warning. First I photographed the documents, saved copies in a brand-new email account, and wrote to Joan.
She saw me the next morning at her office downtown. She examined the notebook carefully and compared it with a copy of the contracts she kept in her files. The account numbers and dates matched. The signature attributed to Walter did not.
“This justifies requesting an investigation,” she explained, “but by itself it doesn’t prove who forged the signature or who caused your father’s death.”
She asked me not to alter the files or hand the original to anyone. She had seen important cases collapse because papers changed hands without a record. She noted the page numbers, took photographs with my authorization, and signed a receipt detailing what she had reviewed. She also advised me to keep any messages from the Whitakers on the phone where I received them.
“Did you know my mother was still alive?”
Joan looked away.
“I knew Walter had received letters from her. I didn’t know her current address. He should have told you. I should have pushed him harder, too.”
Before I left, Joan showed me a document: Walter had requested a review of the transfers just four days before he died. The request was later closed with an authorization that, once again, bore his suspicious signature.
Outside, I found three missed calls from Grant and a text:
“My dad can help you with the delivery, the rent, and the baby. All you have to do is hand over the green notebook. Don’t make anyone take this to family court.”
My knees buckled. I hadn’t told anyone the color of the notebook except Joan and Vincent. Grant knew exactly what I was holding.
I called him.
“How long have you known about the green notebook?”
There was a long silence.
“Tessa, don’t ask questions that could hurt our child.”
“Did you get close to me on your father’s orders?”
“At first I only wanted to look through the papers,” he admitted. “Then things got complicated.”
“Was our relationship an assignment?”
“Don’t be dramatic. If we meet tonight and you give me the notebook, I’ll take care of the pregnancy.”
I hung up. A moment later another message came in, this one with a photo taken from the street: the window of my apartment, and above it, a warning.
“You have until tomorrow to decide if you want to raise that baby in peace.”
PART 3
I didn’t go to meet Grant. I took the photo and the messages to Joan, and that same afternoon we filed a report for the threats with the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office. We also asked that the original messages and the senders’ information be preserved. Joan explained that a report wasn’t an instant shield, so I stayed for a few days with my friend Dana, whose address Grant didn’t know.
At eight that night, Vincent called. He had heard I was no longer at home.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Somewhere safe. I’m not giving you the address.”
“I understand. Joan has asked me to come in tomorrow to talk about the payments. I’m bringing my company’s bank statements.”
“Even if they incriminate you?”
“Especially if they incriminate me. I already made the mistake of hiding things.”
