Chapter 8: The Money That Went Around
The man from the directors’ side didn’t give me the audit.
He only said the board had found vendor numbers in more than one set of records, and that the review was still underway. Rachel joined us before he could say anything else.
“Please preserve whatever you’re authorized to preserve,” she told him. “We won’t ask you to disclose confidential material in a hallway.”
He nodded, visibly relieved. “That’s all I can do.”
Derek was still inside the conference room. Through the glass, I saw him gesturing with one hand, his smile back in place as he spoke to Martin. From a distance, he looked like the man who had always explained our life to other people: my work was a hobby, his house was our home, his success was our security.
Rachel touched my elbow.
“Don’t turn an overlap into a conclusion,” she said quietly.
“I won’t.”
I meant it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about those numbers appearing in a confidential audit—and the proposal Derek had brought into the room with my name printed beneath the words Funding Partner.
By the time we reached Rachel’s office, Sloane had sent a message. She had records she wanted us to see, she said, but would only provide them through counsel. Rachel asked whether I wanted to review them.
I thought of the earrings in my bag. Their small weight pressed against my keys.
“Only if she understands we’re not promising her anything.”
Rachel typed a reply.
A few minutes later, a secure folder appeared on her screen. The files inside were redacted: account names obscured, portions of transaction references blacked out. Some pages looked like exports from Whitmore Consulting’s accounting system. Others were email printouts with names and addresses covered.
Rachel placed a copy of Nina’s building records beside them. She had already asked Nina to send the invoices she’d been reviewing, along with the proposal pages containing the related charges.
We compared the documents without speaking at first.
The same vendor number appeared on a Langford Plaza invoice and in a company record. Then it appeared again on the proposal Derek had presented that morning.
I slid the pages closer together. “This is the same number.”
“It’s the same vendor identifier,” Rachel said. “That tells us the records are connected in some way. It doesn’t tell us who ultimately received the money, or whether the work was duplicated.”
The caution was sensible. It was also infuriating.
I studied the dates. One invoice described a project review. The proposal described a similar review for what looked like a similar period. The wording was close enough to make my stomach tighten, not close enough to settle anything.
“Could the company have paid a vendor for work the building paid for too?” I asked.
“Possibly,” Rachel said. “Or there may be a legitimate reason for separate charges. We need the underlying records before drawing conclusions.”
My phone buzzed against the table.
Sloane: I’ll come in. I want you to hear it from me.
Rachel looked at me. “You can say no.”
I glanced at the screens—the repeated number, the blanked-out account, the lines of text whose missing pieces seemed to make every possible story fit.
“Let her come.”
Sloane arrived twenty minutes later, carrying no purse, no coat, nothing that could make her look prepared to stay. She sat across from me and set both hands on the table. Without the pearls, her throat looked strangely bare.
Rachel didn’t invite her to soften the story.
“Tell us what these records are,” she said.
Sloane’s eyes moved to the pages. “Some are vendor setup forms. Some are payment exports. I redacted client information and account details.”
“Did you create the vendors?”
Her mouth tightened. “Some of them.”
The answer landed with less force than I expected. Maybe because the truth had been circling us for days. Maybe because a part of me had already known that no one could manage a finance department without touching the machinery.
“Why?” I asked.
Sloane glanced at Rachel, then back to me. “Derek told me which vendors to set up. He said they were temporary accounts for project expenses. The company was waiting on reimbursements, and we needed to keep the work moving.”
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.” Her fingers curled against the table. “It isn’t.”
She told us the accounts had been created in the company system under vendor names Derek supplied. She didn’t know, or wouldn’t say, where every payment went. The records she had brought didn’t answer that question. They only made the repeated numbers harder to dismiss.
Rachel pointed to a line on one page. “You received a bonus during this period?”
Sloane’s gaze dropped. “Yes.”
“Was it connected to these payments?”
“I don’t know exactly how the bonus was calculated.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
There it was: not a helpless assistant swept along by a force beyond her control. Sloane had made choices, and one of them had paid her.
“Did you tell yourself that didn’t matter?” I asked.
For a second, I thought she would argue. Instead, she swallowed.
“I told myself the firm was going to recover. I told myself Derek knew what he was doing.”
“You were his finance director.”
“I know what I was.”
The room went quiet. Outside Rachel’s window, a delivery truck rumbled along the street. The sound faded, leaving the faint buzz of the office lights.
Rachel turned to another document. “You said there was a signature you needed to discuss.”
Sloane’s face changed. It wasn’t the fear of someone caught in a small lie. It was the fear of someone deciding whether to admit to a larger one.
“I copied Hannah’s signature onto one of the loan packages.”
My breath caught.
“Which package?” Rachel asked.
“The one that listed her as guarantor. Derek sent me a template and said she’d already agreed to the paperwork. He told me to complete the submission.”
“You saw her sign it?”
“No.”
“You had her permission?”
Sloane looked at me. “No.”
I sat very still. An old memory came back with cruel clarity: Derek pushing papers toward me at the kitchen counter, telling me they were household forms. His voice, easy and familiar. My own hand moving across the page while Noah complained that his cereal had gone soggy.
I had not known what I was signing. I had not even understood that a signature could keep moving after I left the room.
“You copied my name,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Because Derek told you to.”
“He gave me the template.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t look away. “I chose to use it.”
That admission mattered. So did the way she said it—as if she hoped naming her choice would make the next one easier.
Sloane leaned toward me. “I can help prove what Derek did. I have records. I can tell you which accounts he asked me to create and when. But I need to know you won’t let this ruin me.”
Rachel’s expression hardened. “You’re asking for immunity.”
“I’m asking for protection.”
“You’re asking Hannah to promise you an outcome she doesn’t control.”
Sloane’s eyes stayed on mine. “You know what he’s like. He’ll blame everything on whoever’s closest.”
“I know what you did,” I said. “I also know you’re sitting here because you want something from me.”
“I want not to be destroyed for doing what he told me to do.”
“And I want my name off documents I never agreed to. But I can’t promise you anything.”
Her shoulders slumped, then squared again. “So you’re going to use what I give you and leave me on my own.”
“No. I’m going to make sure everything you give us goes through Rachel. If it’s true, it can be checked. If you want your role explained, it needs to be explained honestly. I won’t trade you a promise for evidence.”
Sloane’s face flushed. “You think you’re different from him.”
“I’m trying to be.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The unanswered records sat between us. I wanted to believe that Sloane’s confession might make the fear smaller, more manageable—something with a single responsible person and a clear next step.
But the bonus was still there. So was the forged signature. So was the fact that she had waited until the company’s trouble reached me before deciding to tell the truth.
Rachel began collecting the pages into a neat stack.
“Any additional records go through counsel,” she said. “No promises about outcomes. No private files moved or altered. We’ll document what you provide.”
Sloane nodded, but her attention remained fixed on me.
“You should know,” she said, “Derek has another file.”
My hand went still beside the copy of the invoice.
“What kind of file?” Rachel asked.
“A backup. Separate from the regular accounting records.”
“Have you seen it?”
Sloane hesitated. “I know what it’s called. I know what’s in it.”
Rachel’s chair creaked as she leaned forward. “Be precise.”
May you like
Sloane looked at me, and the little fear I’d seen before was gone. In its place was something sharper—maybe warning, maybe leverage.
“Derek has a backup file,” she said. “It names you as the person who approved the vendor payments.”
