Chapter 7 - The Paper Trail
The town car sped through the slick, rain-drenched streets of Brooklyn, heading toward Manhattan under a canopy of heavy grey clouds. Inside the vehicle, the partition between the driver and the back seat was fully raised.
Rowan sat stiffly on the edge of the plush leather seat, staring down at the tablet Julian had placed between them. The screen illuminated her face with a pale, ghostly light as she scrolled through lines of digital forensic data extracted from David’s laptop backup.
“He didn't just steal thirty thousand dollars from our shared savings last week,” Rowan said, her voice hollow, stripped of all emotion. “He’s been micro-siphoning funds from every paycheck, every tax refund, and every freelance audit I’ve done for the past twenty-four months. He built a shadow portfolio right under my nose.”
“People like David don't build empires on sudden inspiration,” Julian said, pouring two fingers of amber liquid from a crystal decanter housed in the car’s side panel. He didn't offer her a glass, knowing she needed a clear head. “They spend years planting roots in fertile soil. He found you when you were vulnerable, studied your habits, and waited for the exact moment your father’s business collapsed to execute the play.”
Rowan looked up from the screen, her eyes burning with a sudden, fierce clarity. The shock and grief were gone, replaced by an icy, methodical rage.
“He thinks I’m a patsy,” she whispered. “He thinks because my signature is on that proxy, I’ll just curl up and take the blame when the feds come knocking.”
“Will you?” Julian asked, his dark eyes studying her profile in the dim light of the cabin.
“My father spent thirty years building Mercer Logistics brick by brick,” Rowan said, turning to face him fully. “He died believing he failed. If David thinks I’m going to let him use my name to shield his little theft ring while my father’s memory gets dragged through the mud, he doesn't know the first thing about forensic accounting.”
Julian’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smirk. For the first time, a flicker of genuine respect crossed his expression. “What do you need?”
“Access to the raw transaction logs of the offshore routing numbers David used,” Rowan replied instantly. “The backup files we pulled from his storage unit only show the front-end ledgers. But David is arrogant. He uses the same encryption protocol for his personal secondary accounts—a proprietary handshake that requires a mobile authenticator he keeps linked to his primary phone.”
“Which he currently has with him,” Julian noted.
May you like
“Not necessarily,” Rowan countered, tapping the tablet screen. “When David panicked on Monday and cleared out my apartment, he left his old burner phone plugged into the outlet behind our headboard. He thought it was dead, but I noticed the battery icon was still flashing when I packed my things.”
Julian reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his own secure satellite phone, and punched in a rapid sequence of digits. He spoke two words into the receiver: “Get the bed.”
