Chapter 4 - The Name No One Expected
Beatrice read the unfinished message three times.
BEATRICE, THE PERSON RUNNING THIS IS—
Nothing after it.
No saved draft.
No attachment.
No name.
Dante checked the unconscious security guard.
“Breathing.”
“Where's Elliot?”
“Not here.”
The stairwell door above them slammed.
Dante looked up.
“Move.”
They descended two floors.
Sirens sounded somewhere below as the building fire system triggered automatic emergency protocols.
Employees and gala guests began entering stairwells.
Within minutes, any chance of quietly finding Elliot disappeared.
Dante guided Beatrice into an empty conference room on thirty-eight.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Beatrice.”
“You don't get to order me around because you called me a queen.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Apparently the title created expectations.”
“Elliot may be in danger.”
“He may also be involved.”
“He said his son was threatened.”
“People lie when cornered.”
“He doesn't.”
Dante studied her.
“You trust him.”
“I did.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Beatrice looked through the glass wall at people moving through the corridor.
“I don't know anymore.”
That hurt more than she expected.
Charles's cruelty was easy to understand.
Victoria's contempt was familiar.
But Elliot had been kind.
Real kindness, she had believed.
If even that had been manufactured, then the entire last decade of her life suddenly felt unstable.
Dante seemed to read something in her face.
“Being wrong about someone doesn't make you foolish.”
“That's easy for you to say.”
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
She looked at him.
His expression had changed.
“Who were you wrong about?” she asked.
For several seconds he said nothing.
“My brother.”
Beatrice had heard vague rumors.
Dante's older brother, Marco Moretti, had died six years earlier.
Officially a car accident.
Unofficially everything else.
“What happened?”
“I trusted him with things I shouldn't have.”
“Money?”
“People.”
His gaze moved toward the city windows.
“He wanted my position. I wanted to believe blood mattered more than ambition.”
“What did he do?”
“Enough.”
The door opened.
Luca entered.
“Fire department says false alarm. Someone triggered the archive-floor detector manually.”
“Elliot?” Dante asked.
“Gone.”
“Security footage?”
“Ten-minute outage.”
Beatrice laughed bitterly.
“Convenient.”
Luca handed Dante a phone.
“Something else.”
Dante read the screen.
Then looked at Beatrice.
“What?”
“Charles Wilkes has called the police.”
“About the fraud?”
“About you.”
Her stomach dropped.
“He reported that you accessed restricted financial systems and stole client records.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“He also reported four-point-eight million dollars missing from the Moretti account.”
Beatrice stared.
“So he's accusing me.”
“Yes.”
Luca added, “Detectives are downstairs.”
For a moment Beatrice could not speak.
This was the plan.
Not eventually.
Now.
Humiliate her publicly.
Make her seem unstable.
Plant evidence.
Report theft.
Use her own investigation against her.
Dante stepped closer.
“Listen to me.”
She looked up.
“Do not run.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good. Because innocent people sometimes panic and make themselves look guilty.”
“Then what do I do?”
“We give them the truth.”
“All of it?”
“All of what we can prove.”
Police arrived ten minutes later.
Detective Lena Ortiz was in her forties, compact, direct, and immediately unimpressed by Dante Moretti.
Beatrice liked her.
Ortiz spoke first.
“Miss Gallagher, your employer alleges unauthorized access, data theft, and financial manipulation.”
“My employer is lying.”
“Probably not the best opening.”
“It’s the accurate one.”
Ortiz studied her.
Dante said nothing.
Beatrice explained.
Everything.
The discrepancies.
Charles's instruction to delete files.
The stolen folder.
The false administrator profile.
The fake promotion.
Elliot.
The threats to Maggie.
She showed Ortiz the photographs sent to her phone.
Ortiz's expression hardened.
“These came tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Your sister safe?”
“Yes.”
Ortiz looked at Dante.
“Because of him?”
“Yes.”
“I hate complicated evenings.”
“You and me both.”
Ortiz nearly smiled.
Then Charles entered with two attorneys.
He looked shaken but composed.
“Detective, that woman should not have access to our systems.”
That woman.
Beatrice felt the old impulse to shrink.
Instead she turned.
“My name is Beatrice.”
Charles paused.
“Miss Gallagher violated company policy.”
“You told me to delete evidence.”
“I told you to correct a misunderstanding.”
“You said, ‘Delete your working files.’”
“Do you have proof?”
Silence.
Charles smiled slightly.
There it was.
He knew she did not.
Dante moved forward.
Ortiz put up a hand.
“Mr. Moretti, don't.”
Dante stopped.
Charles looked more confident.
Then Beatrice remembered.
Her watch.
Not luxury.
Not expensive.
A small digital recorder watch Maggie had bought her after Beatrice began attending regulatory interviews.
“You always forget exact wording when people upset you,” Maggie had said.
“So record your notes.”
Beatrice touched her wrist.
She had activated it before entering Charles's office that afternoon.
Her pulse jumped.
“I might.”
Charles's smile vanished.
Beatrice connected the watch to her phone.
The recording played.
Charles's voice filled the room.
“Delete your working files.”
Then Beatrice:
“I can't sign the quarterly certification knowing these numbers are wrong.”
Charles:
“I'm not asking.”
Ortiz turned slowly toward him.
Charles's attorney stepped forward.
“My client will not answer further questions tonight.”
Dante looked at Beatrice.
Something close to pride appeared in his eyes.
But Charles was not finished.
He pointed at her.
“That recording doesn't prove she didn't steal the money.”
“No,” Ortiz said. “But it proves you wanted records deleted.”
Charles's face tightened.
Ortiz ordered officers to preserve company servers and secure Beatrice's office.
For the first time that night, Beatrice felt the ground stop moving beneath her feet.
Only briefly.
Because then Victoria Lane walked into the corridor.
Her silver dress was gone.
She now wore a dark coat.
And she was carrying a suitcase.
Ortiz noticed.
“Going somewhere?”
Victoria froze.
“No.”
“Looks like somewhere.”
Victoria's eyes found Beatrice.
Fear.
Again.
But this time Beatrice saw something else.
Desperation.
“Victoria,” Beatrice said.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Don't say anything.”
Ortiz stepped between them.
“Ms. Lane, I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
Victoria backed away.
“No.”
“It's voluntary.”
“No.”
She turned.
Two officers blocked the hallway.
Victoria's composure shattered.
“You don't understand!”
Ortiz said, “Then help me.”
Victoria looked at Charles.
Charles stared back coldly.
Something passed between them.
Recognition.
Hatred.
Victoria suddenly laughed.
“You really think Charles planned this?”
Everyone went quiet.
Charles said, “Victoria.”
She ignored him.
“You think he could plan breakfast without an assistant?”
“Stop talking,” Charles's lawyer said.
Victoria's eyes filled with tears.
“He was taking money, yes. But he wasn't the one who created Beatrice's profile.”
Beatrice's heart pounded.
“Who was?”
Victoria looked directly at her.
“The person who recommended you for this job ten years ago.”
Elliot.
Beatrice's stomach dropped.
“No.”
Victoria shook her head.
“Not Elliot.”
“Then who?”
Victoria's lips parted.
Before she could answer, the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then every phone in the corridor chimed at the same time.
Email notification.
Beatrice looked down.
A company-wide message had been sent from her own account.
Subject:
CONFESSION.
She opened it.
May you like
The first line read:
My name is Beatrice Gallagher, and I have been stealing from Wilkes & Hart clients for seven years.
