Chapter 6
Victor Hale was waiting beside the freight elevator, staring at his phone as if it had delivered bad news and he was trying to outlast it.
I stepped into his path. The corridor smelled of cardboard dust and the burnt coffee somebody had abandoned on a loading cart. “Your credential opened the south service entrance and the accident-records room almost at the same time.”
Victor’s eyes stayed on his screen.
“That doesn’t mean I was in both places,” he said.
“No. It means somebody had a copy of your credential.”
“Then ask security.”
“I did. They’re asking me to ask you.”
His thumb stopped moving. For one moment, he looked up—not at me, but past my shoulder toward the elevator doors. “I didn’t access those records.”
“Did you know someone did?”
The elevator chimed. Victor stepped aside to let a delivery worker through, then waited until the wheels of the cart rattled out of earshot.
“What are you really asking me?”
I took the torn invoice fragment from my pocket. I’d folded it until the crease ran through the number the mechanic had pointed out: a steering-assembly inspection that belonged to a delivery van, not Darlene’s retired sedan.
Victor saw it and went still.
“Where did you get that?”
“From someone who worked on the sedan.”
His face tightened. “You shouldn’t be carrying that around.”
“Why? It’s a fragment of a work order.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
Victor glanced at the freight elevator again. “Please. Don’t mention the garage night shift.”
I felt the paper edge press into my fingers. “Why would you care whether I mention it?”
His jaw worked. He looked down at his phone, though the screen had gone dark.
“Victor.”
“I can’t talk here.”
“You’re the one who brought up the garage.”
“I said don’t mention it.” He finally looked at me, and there was something in his expression I couldn’t read as guilt or fear—or both. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The elevator doors opened. Victor stepped in.
“Did Grant tell you to pull the accident records?” I asked.
The doors began to close. Victor’s eyes flicked to mine.
“I said I can’t talk here.”
Then the elevator swallowed him.
Darlene was waiting in her office when I came upstairs. Curtis stood by the windows with a tablet in his hand, while Darlene remained behind her desk, one palm pressed flat against the wood. Her back was straight. Her face was not quite as still.
“I want Victor in here,” she said.
“He just left the freight corridor.”
“I know. Curtis has the access log.”
Curtis turned the tablet so I could see the entries. A string of numbers, timestamps, and door labels. Victor’s credential appeared beside the restricted archive, then at the south service entrance—close enough together that the log looked less like a trail than a contradiction.
Darlene read it without blinking. “Victor.”
He came in a minute later, still carrying his phone. He stopped short when he saw the tablet.
“You said you hadn’t accessed the records,” Darlene said.
“I haven’t.”
“Your credential did.”
“Someone copied it.”
“That’s what Curtis believes.” She looked at him. “I want to know who wanted the accident records.”
Victor’s gaze dropped to the tablet. His fingers tightened around his phone.
“Grant asked me to pull copies,” he said.
Darlene’s hand shifted on the desk. “When?”
“Last week.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed them for the board. He wanted the accident file and the follow-up reports. I gave him what he asked for.”
“You gave him copies of my accident records without telling me?”
“He’s the chief operating officer. He said the request was authorized.”
“Did he ask you to change anything?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you why he needed them?”
Victor looked as if the answer hurt his mouth. “He said the board needed a complete picture.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
Darlene watched him for a long second. “Did you ever see the car after the crash?”
“No.”
His answer came quickly. Maybe too quickly. He shifted his weight, keeping his eyes on the tablet.
I took the invoice fragment from my pocket. “Then why did you recognize this?”
Victor’s gaze snapped to the scrap. Darlene noticed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“An invoice fragment from the garage,” I said. “It’s for a steering inspection, but the number belongs to a delivery van.”
Darlene’s expression hardened. “Victor?”
“I don’t know anything about that paper.”
“You just recognized it.”
“I recognized the number. That doesn’t mean I know where it came from.”
“Blake said it came from the garage.”
Victor’s mouth opened, then shut. “I didn’t see the car.”
Darlene leaned one hand more heavily on the desk. The movement was small, but I saw her fingers stiffen before she made them relax.
“You retrieved records about my crash for my brother,” she said. “You recognized a garage invoice tied to a steering inspection. And you expect me to accept that you know nothing.”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
“No,” she said. “You’re telling me what you’re willing to say.”
Victor flinched. Then he looked down again.
Darlene dismissed him without raising her voice. He left without looking at either of us.
The corridor outside had filled with people heading toward the executive conference room. Grant stood near its entrance, speaking to two board members with his easy, practiced smile. When he saw me, he excused himself and crossed the hall.
“Blake,” he said. “A word.”
Darlene stepped out behind me. “Whatever you have to say, say it here.”
Grant’s smile thinned. “Fine. Your temporary appointment is under formal review. The board will be informed that you’re an unvetted hire in a sensitive role.”
“I signed the terms Darlene offered,” I said.
“You signed a piece of paper. That doesn’t make you qualified.”
“Neither does standing next to the boardroom door.”
His eyes cooled. “I’m trying to keep Oakridge from becoming a family indulgence.”
Darlene moved beside me. “My appointment stands until the review is complete.”
“Of course.” Grant’s gaze settled on me again. “And the board may have questions about your judgment. Your financial history, for instance. Your debts. Your eviction notice.”
The hallway seemed to empty around that sentence. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead; somewhere behind the conference-room doors, chairs scraped across the floor.
Grant lowered his voice, though not enough to keep Darlene from hearing. “A man with that much to lose shouldn’t be put in a position where he can be bought.”
Heat rose up my neck. For a moment, I was back in my apartment, the eviction notice spread across my kitchen table beside Abigail’s inhaler. Shame had a way of making an ordinary room feel like a place you’d been caught doing something wrong.
“I’m not discussing my finances with you,” I said.
“You may not get to choose what the board sees.”
“Then let them see it.”
Grant’s smile faltered, just briefly. “Careful.”
He turned and walked into the conference room. Darlene watched the door close, her face set like stone.
I waited until the board members had gone inside before speaking. “He has my records.”
“I heard him.”
“He used them to make me look compromised.”
“I know.”
The reply was too quick, too controlled. I looked at the closed conference-room door, then back at her.
“I know you saw the file,” I said. “That’s not the same as hearing someone use it against me.”
A muscle jumped in her jaw. She didn’t offer an apology that would turn the moment into something smaller.
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
“I’m not asking you to fix my debts. I’m not taking the money. But I’m done pretending this doesn’t scare me.”
Her gaze held mine. “Then don’t pretend.”
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Unknown number. One image.
I opened it.
A photograph of Darlene’s metal brace lay across a chair, one strap twisted loose, the dark lining visible where it had rested against her ribs. The room around it was dim and familiar, though I couldn’t place the angle.
May you like
Beneath the image, the sender had written five words.
SHE WILL FALL AGAIN.
