Chapter 17 - The Boxes He Wanted Gone
The destruction request had not been processed.
That was the first thing Naomi told us when she called.
The facility required current authorization from the account holder’s legal representative. The submitted paperwork had raised questions, and a supervisor had placed it on hold.
For once, an ordinary employee following an ordinary rule had saved us from something extraordinary.
By nine the next morning, Marcus and Naomi had secured access and arranged for the boxes to be preserved.
There were four.
Clara had labeled them in blue ink.
Harbor House.
Family photographs.
Foundation ideas.
Correspondence.
I stood beside a folding table while a records technician documented the contents.
No dramatic vault.
No leather-bound confession.
Just cardboard, paper clips, and the stubborn survival of a woman’s unfinished work.
The correspondence box contained letters between Clara and a retired land-use attorney named Edwin Bell.
The subject was the channel easement.
Years earlier, Clara had learned that a portion of the waterfront could not be developed as private commercial access without the trust’s consent.
She had wanted the land preserved.
A draft agreement would have dedicated the access corridor to a public maritime education program.
It had never been completed.
But the research made the stakes clear.
Harbor House was inconvenient to someone planning a much larger deal.
Naomi separated the relevant letters.
“These need verification. We’ll contact Bell.”
Marcus stood at the far end of the table, reading an old note Clara had left on a budget.
He smiled once.
A small, broken smile.
“What?” I asked.
“She crossed out my estimate for the roof.”
“What did she write?”
“Ask somebody who knows roofs, Marcus.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
For a moment, she felt less like a portrait in our hallway and more like a woman I might have liked over coffee.
Then my phone rang.
Trent.
I stepped into the corridor, keeping the door open.
“My room’s been searched,” he said.
My smile disappeared.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I came back from the docks. Drawers open. Mattress moved.”
“Have you called the police?”
“I’m about to.”
“Do that. Then call your attorney.”
“Sienna, there’s something else.”
I waited.
“Corinne called last night. She wanted to know whether I’d kept any company files.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That they took my laptop when they fired me.”
“Did she believe you?”
“She asked about photographs.”
I looked through the glass at the boxes on the table.
The same method, repeated.
Find the paper.
Find the image.
Make it disappear.
Naomi joined the call and instructed Trent to preserve the messages and avoid meeting Corinne alone.
When we finished, Marcus took my hand.
“This is getting too close to you.”
“It was close to me when they put my signature on that payment.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to confront anyone. But I’m not disappearing from my own work.”
He nodded.
No argument.
Just fear, acknowledged and shared.
By afternoon, the outside accountants had traced the Meridian payments through two additional businesses.
One paid consulting fees to a company owned by Corinne Finch.
Another had made a deposit toward an option agreement for the parcel beside Harbor House.
Neither fact proved Conrad’s personal involvement.
Then Vivian sent Naomi an email chain.
Hale had forwarded her the supposed trust statements from an address associated with Meridian.
He had signed one message with his usual corporate footer.
Careless.
Or accustomed to never being questioned.
Naomi arranged a meeting with the company’s independent board committee.
Marcus would not conduct the investigation himself.
For the first time that week, we had something resembling a path forward.
Then Rachel called.
“I’m outside your foundation office.”
“Why?”
“Because the alarm company called your project manager, and he called me when you didn’t answer.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“The rear door’s damaged. Police are here.”
I looked toward Marcus.
He was already reaching for his keys.
Rachel’s voice changed.
“Sienna. The officer says you need to come identify something.”
“What?”
A pause.
“A checkbook from Maya’s trust.”
I had never possessed that checkbook.
May you like
But someone had placed it inside the locked drawer of my desk.
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