Chapter 3 - Paige’s Audit
Paige called a locksmith before breakfast.
Then she changed passwords.
Not because we knew Graham had misused anything.
Because basic security did not require an accusation.
I drove to her apartment with coffee and found her sitting at the kitchen island surrounded by notebooks, printed statements, and the kind of color-coded folders she used for work.
“This is humiliating,” she said.
“This is Tuesday for cybersecurity.”
“It’s Friday.”
“You know what I mean.”
She almost smiled.
We made two columns.
WHAT GRAHAM SAID.
WHAT WE CAN VERIFY.
He had told Paige he left Meridian Ridge months before its collapse.
Public material suggested he remained publicly affiliated later.
He said he had started his own advisory practice.
We found a Virginia business entity registered under his name, but the registration itself did not prove what services he legally offered.
He said he managed money for wealthy families.
We could not verify that.
He said his clients earned nine to eleven percent through short-term private notes.
That required documents.
He said his previous firm failed because its founders “got greedy.”
That was opinion.
Paige stared at the list.
“I never asked for proof.”
“Most people don’t ask someone they’re sleeping with for audited financial statements.”
“Maybe they should.”
“Romantic.”
She threw a pen at me.
Around noon, Evan joined by video call.
He reviewed our list and made us remove three phrases that sounded accusatory.
“You’re not building a prosecution,” he said. “You’re deciding whether Paige trusts her boyfriend.”
“Former boyfriend,” Paige muttered.
I looked at her.
“Already?”
“I don’t know.”
That was honest.
She had loved Graham yesterday.
Information did not switch that off.
At two, Graham emailed her.
The subject line read: CONTEXT.
He attached a four-page letter explaining Meridian Ridge.
According to him, he had been a salaried business-development employee, not an owner. He claimed he raised internal concerns before the collapse, reduced his responsibilities, and later cooperated with inquiries. He said his name remained on marketing material after he had begun leaving.
Some of that could be true.
Then came the paragraph that bothered me.
Zach’s involvement was purely technical, and he is exploiting privileged information to damage me personally.
Paige looked at me.
“Is that true?”
“No.”
“Any privileged information?”
“I haven’t told you any.”
“Could you?”
“Some things I remember from work are not mine to share.”
Her face changed.
“So there is more.”
“There is always more inside an investigation than what becomes public.”
“Does it make him look worse?”
I paused.
“That’s exactly the kind of question I can’t answer.”
She hated that.
So did I.
But boundaries only mattered when inconvenient.
Paige forwarded Graham’s letter to Evan.
Then she called Graham and asked for one thing.
“Can you send me documentation showing when your employment ended?”
He said yes.
Three hours later, nothing had arrived.
At six, he texted that his old records were “in storage.”
At eight, he said payroll had been handled through an affiliate and would take time to reconstruct.
At ten, he accused her of treating him like a criminal.
Paige turned off her phone.
The next morning, she called the financial institution holding her brokerage account.
Nothing had been transferred.
No new authorized users had been added.
No linked bank accounts had changed.
She exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty-four hours.
Then the representative mentioned something else.
There had been two failed attempts to add an external document-sharing authorization three weeks earlier.
Paige froze.
“What does that mean?”
The representative explained that someone had begun a process to allow a third party to receive certain statements electronically, but the request had not been completed.
“Who started it?”
The representative could only say the request originated through Paige’s authenticated online session.
Paige looked at me.
“I don’t remember doing that.”
“Don’t jump.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Maybe you clicked something while he was helping you.”
Her face hardened.
“That is not better.”
No.
It was not.
We asked the institution to preserve the records and note the account.
Then Paige called Graham.
This time, I left the room.
It was her relationship.
Twenty minutes later, she found me on the balcony.
“He says I asked him to help consolidate my statements.”
“Did you?”
“I told him I wanted to understand my allocation.”
“That’s different.”
“He says I’m rewriting history because my family hates him.”
“Do we?”
She looked at me.
“Dad does.”
“Dad hated him before the pie.”
That earned a laugh.
Then she cried.
Not loudly.
Just suddenly.
I put an arm around her.
“I really liked him.”
“I know.”
“I thought he was confident.”
“He is confident.”
“I thought that meant secure.”
“Not always.”
She wiped her face.
“Why did he hate you immediately?”
I had wondered the same thing.
Maybe he recognized me too.
Not personally.
But perhaps my job title frightened him.
Or maybe men like Graham simply sorted people by usefulness and status.
“I don’t know.”
Paige looked toward the street.
“I think he knew what cybersecurity meant.”
That possibility stayed with us.
On Monday, Graham finally sent employment documents.
A tax form showed Meridian Ridge-affiliated income through the year of the collapse.
His explanation changed again.
He had not been an employee, exactly.
He had received trailing compensation.
Then consulting payments.
Then deferred commissions.
Each answer could be technically plausible.
Together, they created a pattern.
Paige called him one final time.
“I’m not asking whether you were charged,” she said. “I’m asking why every answer changes after I find something.”
I could not hear his response.
I saw hers.
Her shoulders dropped.
Then she said, “No. Don’t come over.”
A pause.
“No.”
Another.
“I said no.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?”
“He wants to explain in person.”
“Do you want that?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
She nodded.
That evening, she put Graham’s belongings from her apartment into two boxes.
She did not throw them away.
She did not destroy anything.
She did not post about him online.
She simply texted:
Your things will be with the concierge tomorrow. Do not use your old key. The lock has been changed.
His response came immediately.
You’re making a huge mistake because of your brother.
Paige stared at it.
Then typed:
No. I’m making a decision because of your answers.
She showed me before sending.
“Good?”
I shook my head.
“Your decision.”
She smiled faintly.
Then sent it without changing a word.
That week also taught Paige how difficult verification could be when someone’s story was composed of half-truths rather than obvious inventions.
Graham really had registered a consulting company.
He really had worked in finance.
He really had clients who spoke well of him.
One former colleague Paige found publicly even described him as ethical and hardworking.
She called me after reading that recommendation.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Include it.”
“You think he might be telling the truth?”
“About some things? Almost certainly.”
She groaned.
“I want one giant red stamp that says LIAR.”
“People aren’t audit reports.”
She hated that answer too.
But it mattered.
We found no criminal conviction.
No public finding that Graham had stolen investor money.
No evidence he had falsified his identity.
If Paige had wanted to keep dating him while demanding documentation and boundaries, I would have thought that risky, but it still would have been her decision.
The problem was becoming narrower and clearer.
He changed facts when challenged.
He concealed a material part of his professional history.
He was recommending investments while being vague about his current role.
And he responded to reasonable questions with pressure.
Paige did not need a felony to decide that was enough.
On Wednesday, Graham left flowers with her concierge.
No note.
She stared at them in the lobby.
“Do I take them?”
“Your flowers.”
“That is not advice.”
“Correct.”
She took them upstairs and put them in a vase.
Then she looked guilty.
“You’re allowed to like flowers from someone you don’t trust.”
“That sounds psychologically unhealthy.”
“Probably.”
Two days later, she threw them away when they wilted.
Nothing symbolic.
Flowers died.
Relationships did too.
The practical work continued.
She downloaded copies of her statements, reviewed recent account activity, and checked her credit reports. Nothing suggested identity theft or unauthorized transfers.
Each clean result reduced the panic.
That was another lesson.
Security work was not only finding disasters.
Sometimes it was proving that the disaster you feared had not happened.
May you like
Paige slept better after that.
So did I.
