Twenty-five #2
Lenning doesn’t waste time admiring the view.
He shrugs off his rumpled raincoat, drops into a chair, and pulls the laptop toward him.
The grainy hallway footage rolls. We see staff coming and going, nothing unusual until suddenly, the feed cuts out.
Thirty minutes of blank screen. Then, just as suddenly, it resumes.
Lenning leans closer, squinting. “Neat little window.” His voice is gravelly. “Somebody knew what they were doing. Any staff with clearance to this system?”
Ellory folds her arms. “Security. Facilities. IT. And executive-level staff.”
“That include you?” he asks, pen poised again.
“Yes,” she says evenly. “But I was in the hospital last night until this morning.”
Lenning jots a note. “What can you tell me about the dress?”
Her jaw tightens. “I bought it in France at Fashion Week. They sent it to the store with a security guard and we set it up in the conference room. Our security team had a camera on it constantly.”
He gives her a look over the top of his notebook, half-smile tugging his mouth. “Who knew the dress was here?”
“I bought the dress anonymously, so it’s not publicly known. But anyone on this floor. But they knew it was for a new line and probably didn’t know the value.”
Lenning scratches something into his notebook, his expression unreadable. “Now. Who benefits if this dress disappears? Competitors? Investors? Family?”
Her eyes flick briefly toward the door, then back. The name she doesn’t say hangs between us like smoke. Heather.
Finally, Ellory says coolly, “The list is short. And yes, I have someone in mind.”
Lenning snaps his notebook shut. “All right. I’ll need that name.”
She nods once, composed but fierce. “My father’s girlfriend, Heather Brooke. She works here doing whatever she decides she wants to do. She was with my father at dinner, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t give access to someone else.”
Lenning studies her for a long moment, his pen stilling above the page. “Ms. Matisse, do you believe the same person who assaulted you could be behind this? Shutting down cameras, slipping in and out unnoticed—it fits a pattern.”
Ellory’s shoulders stiffen, but her voice stays steady. “It’s possible. But this feels different. That was about intimidation. This”—her gaze flicks to the empty dress form—“this is about humiliation. About undercutting me in front of my father and the board.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She takes a deep breath. “Because the dress has been on the form for nearly a month. Our team had a camera on it the entire time.”
Before Lenning can respond, I step in, my voice harder than I intend.
“She’s right. The assault wasn’t about the company.
That was Willow.” The name tastes like acid.
“She’s desperate, unhinged, and looking for leverage on me.
But the dress? That’s not her style. She wouldn’t even know what she was stealing. Heather would.”
Lenning’s eyes shift to me, sharp and assessing. “That’s a serious accusation, Mr. Marino.”
I hold his gaze, jaw tight. “So is assault. So is sabotage. And you asked for my take. I don’t believe in coincidences, but I do believe in motives. Willow wanted to scare Ellory. Heather wants to destroy her.”
I stand off to the side, fists curling at my sides, fury simmering. Whoever thought they could rattle Ellory picked the wrong fight.
Lenning’s pen stills, his gaze cutting back to me. “Strong words, Mr. Marino. But do you have proof? Anything beyond instinct?”
I clamp down on the urge to snap. “Proof? Not yet. But I know Willow. I know what she’s capable of.
And Heather—” I glance at Ellory, then back at him.
“She had every reason to sabotage the board meeting today. That dress goes missing, Ellory looks unprepared, and Heather gets to slide into the spotlight. That’s motive. ”
Lenning leans back in his chair. “Motive without evidence is just suspicion.” He jots another note, then shuts the notebook with a soft thud. “Here’s what I can work with—the timeline, the camera outage, and a shortlist of who had access. I’ll be digging into all of that.”
He rises, gathering his coat. “Ms. Matisse, I’ll need written statements from you and your staff first thing tomorrow. Mr. Marino, if you learn anything that’s more than a hunch, call me directly.”
Ellory nods, calm and steady despite the fire in her eyes. “Thank you, Inspector.”
He gives a curt nod and heads for the door, his scuffed shoes squeaking against the polished floor.
When the door shuts, silence fills the office, thick and humming. I exhale slowly, fists still clenched at my sides.
Proof or not, I know I’m right. Willow came after her last night. Heather came after her today. And neither of them is finished.
When the door closes behind Lenning, I cross to Ellory. She’s still standing tall, still composed, but I can see it—the strain in her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw.
“You’ve been carrying this all day,” I murmur. “Have you even had dinner?”
Her lips curve, faint but tired. “I’ve got something at home.”
I slip an arm around her, and after a beat, she melts against me. The tension bleeds out, her cheek brushing my chest, as if she can finally let herself rest for a moment. I hold her tighter, wishing I could take every burden off her shoulders.
“How was your day?” she asks quietly, voice muffled.
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Didn’t get a damn thing done. Spent the whole day untangling the Willow mess. And tomorrow…” My throat tightens. “Tomorrow’s the first official volley in court. It’s going to get ugly.”
Her hand squeezes mine, silent understanding passing between us.
I walk her to her car, lingering until she’s safely inside. She gives me one last look, a soft smile that’s equal parts gratitude and defiance, before pulling away.
My own drive home is quiet, headlights cutting through the city as exhaustion weighs heavy. I make it through the door just in time for Amelia’s late-night feeding. She stirs in my arms, small fists stretching, and the world shrinks to her soft breaths and steady warmth.
Trixie leans against the counter, smiling. “She had a great day.”
I glance up, the knot in my chest loosening. “She did?”
Trixie nods. “And no sign of Willow.”
Relief floods through me, sharp and fleeting. For tonight at least, the storm hasn’t touched my daughter.