Chapter 13 - The Woman Julian Found
I had spent months learning how to stop expecting Julian at every doorway.
Now he was reaching into my house without leaving prison.
Sarah took over the call.
“When did you communicate with Julian Collins?”
Natalie hesitated.
“Last month.”
“How?”
“He wrote to my mother first. She wouldn’t answer, so I did.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That Audrey knew where the missing pension money went.”
I shut my eyes.
Sarah’s expression stayed still.
“And you believed a man serving a sentence for financial crimes?”
“I believed the man who sent copies of my father’s private records.”
That silenced us.
Natalie agreed to meet the following morning at Sarah’s office.
Ramirez arranged to attend.
I did not sleep much.
Claire woke twice, and each time I sat beside her crib longer than necessary, listening to the soft whistle of her breathing.
At three in the morning, I opened an old photo album.
My father stood outside the distribution warehouse, smiling beneath a faded blue sign.
Beside him was Evan Mercer.
They had their arms around each other’s shoulders.
On the back, my mother had written, David and Evan. Twenty years in business.
I stared at those words until morning.
Natalie was waiting when we arrived.
She looked about my age, with dark hair pulled into a practical knot and a coat whose cuffs had been carefully repaired.
A canvas tote rested against her ankles.
When I entered, she stood.
Neither of us offered a hand.
Ramirez introduced himself, explained that he was investigating the intrusion and threats, and asked whether she had brought the correspondence.
Natalie emptied the tote.
Letters.
Photocopies.
An old employee newsletter.
Finally, she placed a folded page in front of me.
It was Julian’s handwriting.
I recognized the sharp downward stroke of his capital J before I read a single word.
Audrey’s public image matters more to her than anything. A private approach won’t work. Make the foundation answer publicly.
I pushed the letter away.
“He used you.”
Natalie’s mouth tightened.
“Maybe. That doesn’t mean your father was innocent.”
“No,” I said, surprising both of us. “It doesn’t.”
Sarah glanced at me.
I kept looking at Natalie.
“But it means you need to separate what you know from what he wanted you to believe.”
Natalie lowered herself into the chair.
For the first time, she looked exhausted.
Her father had been accused of diverting money shortly before the company sold. He had denied it, lost his position, and died eleven months later.
Her mother had used their savings fighting over an employee retirement claim that never seemed to reach a final answer.
“We kept getting told the records were incomplete,” Natalie said. “Then another firm took over the account. Then someone retired. Eventually, Mom couldn’t afford more letters.”
“Who handled the plan?” Sarah asked.
Natalie pulled out a statement.
“Briar Ridge Benefit Services.”
I knew that name.
Not from my father’s business.
From Julian’s.
He had called Briar Ridge one of his most important commercial clients.
I had served their executives dinner in my dining room.
One man had brought expensive wine and joked that Julian was lucky to have a wife who never asked about business.
I remembered laughing politely.
The memory made my skin crawl.
Sarah asked Natalie for permission to copy everything.
Natalie agreed.
Then Ramirez slid the deliveryman’s photograph across the table.
“Have you seen this man?”
Her face changed immediately.
“Daniel.”
“Daniel who?”
“Daniel Ross. He found me.”
The room went quiet.
Natalie explained that Daniel had contacted her through an online group for former company employees. He said he was helping several families investigate missing benefits.
“He knew things,” she said. “Dates. Account numbers.”
“Did you send him your documents?”
“Copies.”
“Did you tell him about this meeting?”
Natalie’s eyes widened.
“No.”
Ramirez asked to see their messages.
She handed over her phone with fingers that were beginning to tremble.
While he read, Sarah opened another scanned document on her laptop.
The paper from my father’s attorney had arrived.
A short inventory.
A file reference.
And a handwritten instruction.
Sarah turned the screen toward me.
If Audrey asks about Mercer, give her the October recording before showing her the settlement papers.
My father’s signature sat beneath it.
For a moment, I could smell his workshop: sawdust, black coffee, the peppermint gum he kept in his shirt pocket.
“There’s a recording?” I whispered.
Sarah nodded.
Natalie stared at the screen.
Then her phone, lying beside Ramirez’s hand, lit up.
May you like
A message appeared from Daniel Ross.
Don’t trust her tears. Ask what happened to the twenty-first account.
