Chapter 2

There was no money inside. Just a family portrait of the four of us—my father, my mother, Ashford, and me.

That year, I was fifteen, Ashford was twenty-one, my father hadn't been diagnosed with stomach cancer yet, and my mother's hair was still blonde.

There was also a release certificate from prison.

A stack of yellowed bank receipts, each one marked with the same line: [Peyton Group debt repayment.]

All 12 million dollars, every single cent, had been wired straight into the creditors' accounts.

And a copy of a letter.

The original was still in the prison records. Back then, when I wrote that letter, I honestly thought I wouldn't survive the winter.

I locked the box back up and shoved it under the bed.

Outside, the rain was coming down even harder. It streamed off the metal roof of the guardhouse, dripping onto the ground, each drop echoing like the ticking of a clock.

Twelve years ago.

It was late autumn, and the wind cut across my face like a knife.

Peyton Group's headquarters stood in the business district on the east side of the city, a 32-floor tower with a blue-gray glass exterior.

That night, only the lights on the sixteenth floor were still lit.

When I pushed the door open, Ashford was sitting behind his desk, a thick stack of papers spread out in front of him. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the air was thick with the stench of burnt tobacco.

He didn't bother to look up.

"Leave. I don't have time," Ashford said.

I stood my ground.

I set the takeout bag down on the corner of his desk and slid it toward him.

"Eat something," I said.

He finally looked up at me.

His eyes were bloodshot, dark under the lids, like he hadn't closed his eyes in days.

"Liam, are you deaf or something?" Ashford snapped.

"Ashford," I called out.

"Get out," he snapped.

I didn't move.

He shot to his feet, his chair crashing back against the cabinet with a loud bang. "Do you even know what's happening out there?

"The bank is calling in their loans, suppliers are demanding their money, and that bastard, Henry Zedd, reported me for contract fraud. There's a 12 million dollar shortfall, and if I can't cover it in three days, I'm going to jail!"

His hands were shaking.

Ashford was never the type to shake. He was the eldest son. After our father passed away, every responsibility landed squarely on his shoulders.

Our mother was bedridden and needed someone to look after her. His wife had just given birth and was still in the hospital bed, and more than two hundred employees at the company were counting on him for their salaries.

That year, he was thirty-three, and his hair was already starting to turn gray.

I was twenty-seven.

I crouched down and picked up the scattered papers from the floor, one by one.

Financial reports, court summonses, bank collection letters, and a criminal risk report from the lawyer. I read the last page twice; every word felt like a nail driven into my eyes.

[If Mr. Ashford Peyton, as the legal representative, can't pay off the debt in time, he'll be facing criminal charges for contract fraud, and could be looking at up to fifteen years behind bars.]

Fifteen years.

Ashford's son was just a month old. By then, the kid would be in high school. Would he even call the man behind bars "Dad"?

I put the papers back on the desk, my finger lingering over the words "Legal Representative."

Ashford Peyton.

I flipped through the company charter again, and when I got to the last page, it said the company seal had to be kept by the legal representative.

In that instant, a thought slammed into my head, like a nail hammered in, impossible to pull out.

By three in the morning, Ashford had fallen asleep on the couch.

He was curled up on that couch barely six feet long, his coat thrown over him, shoes still on. His brow was furrowed, like even in sleep, he was still worrying about the accounts.

I stood there, watching him for a long time.

Then I turned and walked into his private office.

The safe's code was our mother's birthday. He'd never changed it. I crouched down, my fingers trembling as I punched in the numbers. It took me two tries before I got it right.

The door popped open.

The company seal was sitting on the top shelf, the red ink pad still fresh.

I picked it up and clenched it in my hand, the cold metal pressing against my palm.

Then I turned on the computer and pulled up all the company's financial records.

I'd spent three years in the finance department, so I knew exactly what those figures meant.

12 million dollars. Seven creditors, all waiting to get paid.

There was still 13 million dollars sitting in the company account—that was the money Ashford had set aside for the staff's final paychecks.

I sat at the computer, transferring the money one transaction at a time.

I left 370 thousand dollars for the salaries, and split the remaining 12 million dollars into seven separate transfers, sending each one to a different creditor's account.

To make the transfers, I needed a scan of the company seal and an authorization letter from the legal rep.

I stamped the authorization letter with the company seal and signed my own name where the legal rep was supposed to sign—not Ashford's, but mine.