Chapter 7
I woke up with the locket still around my neck. I hadn't taken it off after the balcony. The chain had left a faint red line on my skin and I could feel the cool oval resting just below my throat when I breathed. The apartment was quiet. Lucy had gone. Ethan had not come home.
That morning I didn't text him. I got dressed in the same black dress from the night before because it was the only thing that felt honest, put on a light coat, and slipped the locket under the collar so it didn't show. I told myself I was going to the foundation tower to ask one clear question, not to make a scene.
The Cole Family Foundation took up three floors downtown, glass and steel with a lobby that smelled like floor polish and coffee. I had been there twice before for gala fittings, always with Ethan holding the door for me. This time I pushed it myself. The security guard at the front desk smiled before I even reached him.
"Mrs. Cole-to-be," the receptionist said. She was young, maybe twenty-four, with a sleek ponytail and a headset. She stood up too fast. "We weren't expecting you. Is Ethan meeting you?"
Her voice was bright and public, the kind of voice meant for a lobby where everyone could hear how welcome I was. I felt the contrast immediately. Last night I had been the woman they kept close on a group chat. This morning I was still the display piece.
"No, he's not," I said. "I left something in the private dressing suite last month. During the fitting. I thought I could grab it if someone has a key."
She hesitated for half a second, eyes flicking to the hallway behind her where the elevators were. Then she smiled wider.
"Of course. Let me take you up. Richard likes the family to feel at home here."
She tapped her badge against the reader and the elevator doors opened. On the way up she talked about the charity gala next week and how beautiful the ballroom would look. I nodded and kept my hand against my coat where the locket was. My breathing was slow and deliberate so she wouldn't hear it shake.
The private dressing suite wasn't really a dressing suite anymore. It was a small conference room on the twenty-second floor with a rack of gowns pushed to one side and a filing credenza against the wall. The receptionist unlocked the door with a key card and held it open for me.
"Take your time," she said. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."
I thanked her and waited until the door clicked shut. The room had the same warm interior lighting as our apartment, mixed with the cool gray coming off the glass. There were framed photos of the Coles at ribbon cuttings. On the credenza, someone had left a stack of foundation folders, each labeled with a year.
I didn't know what I was looking for until I saw my own name. One tab on the second drawer read VICTORIA COLE - AUTHORIZATIONS in neat printed letters. Not Victoria Ellis. Cole. As if I already belonged to them on paper.
I pulled it. Inside were three sheets. The first was a standard nondisclosure form I recognized because I had actually signed it months ago. The second was different. It was a bank authorization letter on foundation letterhead, dated two months earlier, authorizing a secondary disbursement account. At the bottom was a signature in dark ink.
Victoria Cole.
It was my handwriting but not my hand. The loop on the V was too tight. I always left my V open at the bottom. This one was closed, careful, like someone had traced it slowly. Next to it was a typed line: Authorized family representative for Lucy M. — limited arts and education fund.
My hand started to tremble just enough that the paper rattled. I steadied it with my other hand.
The third sheet was a copy of the same letter, already stamped FILED by the bank. They had actually used it.
I heard the soft whir of the ceiling corner and looked up. A small black security camera blinked red above the door. I hadn't noticed it when I walked in. The receptionist's desk phone was visible through the narrow glass panel beside the door, and she was no longer looking at her computer. She was looking at me through the glass, phone to her ear, speaking quietly with her hand half over the mouthpiece.
I didn't confront her. I didn't have time to argue about being family.
I slipped my phone from my coat pocket, laid the forged letter flat on the credenza, and took a photo. Then another, closer, so the signature and the stamp were clear. The sound of the shutter was loud in the quiet room. The receptionist saw the movement and her eyes widened. She turned away slightly and kept talking.
I slid the papers back exactly as I'd found them, closed the drawer, and smoothed the front of my coat. The locket pressed against my skin. I left it closed like I had promised myself I would.
When I opened the door, the receptionist hung up quickly.
"Find what you needed?" she asked, her smile back but thinner now.
"Yes," I said. "Thank you."
She walked me to the elevator and didn't make small talk this time. Down in the lobby, my phone buzzed in my pocket before I reached the sidewalk. It wasn't Ethan. It was an unknown number, but the message was clearly not for me. It was forwarded.
May you like
Richard: She was in the filing room. She photographed the authorization. Advise.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk and the cold air hit my face. Traffic moved past on the avenue. I kept walking away from the tower with the photo safe in my phone and the locket still unopened against my chest, knowing Richard now knew I had stopped just being close and had started looking.
