Chapter 4 - The Ledger at Pier Nine
Before Mason could invite Thomas Rourke to dinner, Jack insisted they needed something stronger than suspicion.
Mason hated the idea.
Emily supported it.
That irritated him more.
“A photograph proves he entered a hallway,” Mason said.
“It proves he lied,” Jack replied.
“Not murder.”
Emily stood near the desk with the ledger from Locker 214.
“And this proves someone used an authorization code he had access to.”
“Still not murder.”
“So find the rest,” she said.
Mason looked at her.
“You’re becoming comfortable giving orders.”
“I’ve been watching you.”
Jack coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Mason ignored him.
Pier Nine had burned, but not everything was destroyed.
A section beneath the warehouse survived.
Old shipping tunnels, built during Prohibition, ran below the dock.
The main ledger mentioned Vault C.
Jack found the entrance beneath collapsed flooring.
By noon, they had a second book.
This one was smaller.
More dangerous.
Names were abbreviated.
Payments were coded.
Emily sat at Mason’s library table helping compare dates.
She was good at patterns.
Years of tracking overdue medical invoices had taught her to recognize numbers that refused to behave.
One payment appeared seven times.
$18,000.
Always transferred to an account marked CROW.
Crane.
“Dr. Crane,” Emily said.
Jack nodded.
“Could be.”
Then another entry appeared.
$250,000.
Destination: D.PRICE.
Daniel Price.
The security coordinator.
Mason stared.
“Price was paid.”
Emily shook her head.
“Maybe.”
“What else would it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Mason looked irritated.
“You defended Rourke. Now Price.”
“I’m defending evidence.”
Jack glanced between them.
“Keep her.”
Mason raised an eyebrow.
“As what?”
“Someone who tells you no.”
“I already have you.”
“You threaten to shoot me.”
“Only when you deserve it.”
Emily turned another page.
Then stopped.
A note had been written beneath Daniel Price’s payment.
EXTRACTION.
WITNESS PROTECTION.
D.Price wasn’t being paid to betray Mason.
He was being paid to run.
“Daniel knew,” Emily whispered.
Jack leaned over.
“Knew what?”
She pointed.
“He wasn’t part of it. Somebody helped him escape.”
Mason’s gaze hardened.
“Who?”
Another code sat beside the transfer.
MC.
Emily froze.
Jack looked at Mason.
“Mason Carter?”
Emily’s heart lurched.
“No.”
There was no Mason Carter.
Jack looked closer.
“Could mean Medical Contingency.”
Mason flipped backward.
Same initials appeared beside three medical shipments.
MC.
Then beside Emily’s employment paperwork.
All three of them stopped.
Emily’s name had been entered four months before she began working at the Vale estate.
EMILY CARTER — DOMESTIC PLACEMENT.
Her mouth went dry.
“What?”
Jack pulled the ledger closer.
“Someone arranged for you to be hired.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You applied through an agency?”
“Yes.”
“Which agency?”
“Sterling House Staffing.”
Jack began typing on his phone.
His expression darkened.
“Owned by a shell company.”
“Whose?”
He looked toward Mason.
“Rourke Holdings.”
Emily sat back.
The question from the original investigation returned.
Who had known about Emily before she ever touched those scissors?
Apparently Thomas Rourke had.
Months before.
Mason’s expression became unreadable.
“Why would he place her here?”
Emily thought about her mother.
The factory.
The smell.
The industrial cord.
Then a terrible possibility formed.
“Maybe he knew about my mother.”
Jack looked at her.
“What was the factory called?”
“Everline Textiles.”
Jack searched.
Silence.
Then he turned the screen around.
Everline Textiles had been acquired twelve years earlier.
Buyer:
Rourke Industrial Group.
Emily felt sick.
“My mother worked for him.”
Mason stood.
Pain flashed through his shoulder, but he ignored it.
“Get everything on Everline.”
Jack called his team.
Within an hour, they uncovered the story.
Everline had experimented with chemical treatments for industrial braided cord.
One compound could break down organic fibers and animal tissue.
It was never approved for commercial use.
Workers reported burns.
Respiratory illness.
Neurological symptoms.
The testing division shut down after an internal investigation.
The remaining chemical stock was supposedly destroyed.
Emily stared at the report.
“My mother said people got sick.”
Mason looked at her.
“Did she ever know Thomas?”
“No.”
“Did she keep records?”
Emily hesitated.
“She kept everything.”
Bills.
Letters.
Work badges.
Pay stubs.
Old notebooks.
After her death, Emily packed them into two storage boxes she could not bring herself to throw away.
Jack sent men to retrieve them.
They returned before sunset.
Emily opened the first box herself.
Her mother’s handwriting covered dozens of notebooks.
Most contained ordinary reminders.
Rent.
Groceries.
Shift schedules.
But near the bottom of the second box was an envelope.
DO NOT THROW AWAY.
Inside were photographs.
Workers with chemical burns.
Industrial cord samples.
And a handwritten list of executives.
Thomas Rourke’s name appeared at the top.
Emily stopped.
A letter accompanied it.
If anything happens to me, this is why.
Emily’s eyes filled.
She sat down.
Mason quietly dismissed everyone except Jack.
Emily read.
Her mother had discovered Everline was hiding worker illnesses.
She tried to report the chemical exposure.
The investigation vanished.
Two managers received promotions.
Employees received small settlements and confidentiality agreements.
Lorraine refused to sign.
Years later, she became sick.
Mason stood beside Emily.
“My mother tried to expose him.”
“Yes.”
“So Thomas knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
“Why hire me?”
Jack answered.
“Control.”
Mason looked at him.
“If Lorraine kept evidence, Thomas may have wondered whether Emily had it.”
Emily wiped her eyes.
“So he brought me into the estate where he could watch me.”
Jack nodded.
“Or search your belongings.”
Emily stared at the poisoned stitches.
Then another thought struck her.
“But why poison Mason with something connected to my mother’s factory?”
Mason understood first.
“Because if anyone discovered the compound—”
“They could trace it to Everline.”
“And then to me,” Emily whispered.
The bottle under her mattress was not a backup frame.
It was the plan from the beginning.
Mason was meant to die slowly.
If anyone discovered poison, Emily would become the obvious suspect.
A broke maid whose mother had died because of Rourke’s company.
She had motive.
Access.
And planted evidence.
Mason stared at the ledger.
“It was built to survive investigation.”
Jack nodded.
“Except they didn’t expect Emily to recognize the thread before you died.”
Emily looked at the six cords.
A strange anger replaced fear.
Thomas Rourke had used her mother’s suffering as part of a murder plan.
He had dragged Lorraine’s death into Emily’s life one final time.
Mason’s voice dropped.
“Dinner happens tonight.”
Jack looked at him.
“We still don’t know motive.”
“I’ll ask.”
“That’s not how interrogations work.”
“It is at my table.”
Emily stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Thomas used my mother.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not coming.”
“He planted poison under my mattress.”
“Emily.”
“He brought me into this house.”
Mason stepped closer.
“You think I’m protecting you because I doubt your courage?”
“I think you’re used to deciding for everybody.”
“I’m used to people dying when I don’t.”
The words stopped her.
For a moment they stood too close.
Emily could see exhaustion in his eyes.
Fear, too.
Not for himself.
For her.
Her anger softened.
“Mason.”
He looked down.
“You don’t get to save my life and then make it impossible for me to return the favor.”
“I already returned it.”
“No.”
His voice became quiet.
“You gave me my future back.”
Emily’s throat tightened.
Jack looked away, suddenly fascinated by the curtains.
Mason continued.
“I’m not putting yours on the same table as Thomas Rourke.”
Emily breathed slowly.
“Then let me be nearby.”
Mason hesitated.
“Behind the surveillance room.”
Jack nodded.
“She can listen.”
Mason did not like it.
That was obvious.
But finally he agreed.
At eight that evening, the library became a dining room.
Four places were set.
Mason sat at the head.
Jack stood behind him.
One empty chair faced Mason.
Beside Mason’s wineglass lay a small silver dish.
Inside it were the six black stitches.
At eight-oh-three, Thomas Rourke walked through the door.
He saw Mason.
Then the stitches.
For the first time in seventeen years, Mason watched the man who raised him lose control of his face.
Only for a second.
But one second was enough.
Thomas sat down.
“You look remarkably alive.”
Mason lifted his wineglass.
“Disappointed?”
Thomas smiled.
“Never.”
Mason touched one black cord with his fork.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Thomas looked at it.
“What?”
Mason’s gaze became ice.
May you like
“Why did you try to kill me?”
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