Chapter 3

A man sat by the window in the café. He looked over forty, dressed in a dark gray jacket, cradling an untouched coffee.

I walked over, pulled out the chair across from him, and sat.

He looked up and gave me a once-over. "Emily Foster?"

"Brian Cole?" I asked.

He nodded, putting his cup down. "I was a friend of Olivia's."

"Her ex?"

He froze for a moment, then let out a small laugh. "You know everything, don't you?"

I stayed silent.

He stopped smiling, pulled an envelope from inside his jacket, set it on the table, and slid it toward me. "Three days before Olivia died, she mailed this to my mother. She said if something happened to her, I should hand it over to you."

I stared at the envelope. It was a plain brown envelope, unsealed. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"Because I wasn't sure if I should," he said, pausing. "Olivia told me about you. She said you're the only one in this family who actually sees things clearly."

I opened the envelope. Inside was a photo and a single sheet of paper. It was a photo of Michael and Olivia together, with a black Mercedes-Benz in the background. The license plate was clearly visible.

On the paper, in Olivia's handwriting, the last line read: [He bought this car with company money. I've written down the license plate. Emily, I'm sorry, but I can't cover for him anymore.]

After reading it, I put everything back in my bag. "How did she die?"

Brian shook his head. "The police say she fell from the 22nd-floor balcony at one in the morning."

"She lived on the 22nd floor?"

"That's right, 22nd floor," Brian said, meeting my eyes. "Emily, Olivia was terrified of heights. She wouldn't go near the balcony."

I looked at him. "What do you know?"

"I don't know much. But I do know that Michael visited her the night before she died."

I paused for a few seconds. "How do you know that?"

"Olivia sent me a voice message, scared, saying he was downstairs. By the time I got there, the place was already taped off." His voice dropped, heavy with regret. "Only twenty minutes late. That's all it took."

I picked up my coffee and took a sip. It was cold. "William will reach out to you. Hold onto everything you've got."

He nodded.

I stood up, walked to the door, then turned back. "Brian."

"Yeah?"

"Do you hate Michael?"

He gave a small, bitter smile. "Olivia was with him for six years, and he never made her official."

He didn't answer my question. But I saw the answer in his eyes.

I walked out of the café, pulled out my phone, and made a call. "William, I need you to look up a license plate for me."

"Which one?" William asked.

I told him the plate number.

"Alright, give me half a day."

After hanging up, I stood by the curb, watching the traffic roll by.

Six years ago, I found a gas station receipt in Michael's shirt pocket. Back then, I didn't pay much attention. Thinking about it now, that was probably the first sign.

I thought, 'Michael, you kept her around for six years, spent over 300 thousand dollars, and still couldn't bother to put a car in her name. You even bought it with company money.

'Did you think the company was all yours? Did you forget forty percent of it belongs to me?'

I hailed a cab and headed to the bank.

The teller at the bank recognized me. "Nice to see you, Emily."

"I'd like to check the transaction history for this account." I gave her Olivia's name and Social Security number.

She glanced at the info, looking a little unsure. "This is someone else's account."

"She's dead. I'm the one holding the mortgage for her property." I kept my tone even.

Her eyes darted, but she went ahead and started typing.

Ten minutes later, she handed me a printout.

I scanned it. Under Olivia's name, two regular transfers came in every month: one for 10 thousand dollars, labeled "living expenses," and another for 5 thousand dollars, labeled "rent."

The money came from a company called Brightstone Materials. That was Michael's company.

I kept reading. There were other large transfers. 70 thousand dollars last March, 100 thousand dollars last July, and another 170 thousand dollars last November. All memos were blank.

I pointed to the first two entries. "That one labeled rent, who sent it?"

The teller checked the records. "The account holder is Richard Grant." He was Michael's father.

I closed the printout, thanked her, and walked out of the bank.

Standing at the entrance, I called William. "Any luck?"

"Got it," William replied, his voice a little tight. "The Mercedes-Benz is registered under Richard Grant."

"Michael's father."

"Yeah."

"So the car was bought with company money, put in his father's name, and given to his mistress. William, doesn't that basically count as embezzling company assets?"

"Yeah, it does. But you'll need to prove it was bought with company funds."

"Let's get the proof then."

"Emily, this'll take a while."

"I'm not in a hurry. He's stuck in the hospital for now anyway."

After hanging up, I took a cab to Emerald Bay, Eastside.

Yellow police tape fluttered in the wind downstairs.

A handful of people had gathered at the base of the building, craning their necks to look up.

"I heard she fell from up there in the middle of the night, and smashed right into the landscaping."

"Such a shame, she was so young."

"They say she was the other woman, and the wife pushed her over the edge."

I stopped in my tracks, turned, and shot a look at the person who said that. It was a middle-aged woman, waving her hands as she gossiped with the others.