Chapter 3
NORAH
Norah liked to tell herself her apartment was perfect because it was efficient.
That was the story she gave anyone who asked.
Georgetown’s close to work. It’s quiet. The space suits me.
But the truth was, it was her fortress. Every item in its place, every surface carefully chosen, every detail a buffer between her and the chaos that seemed to follow her whenever she loosened her grip.
The following evening, the fortress glowed with warm lamplight. Linen curtains softened the city lights pressing in through the tall windows. A vintage rug, muted reds and blues, gave the hardwood a lived-in texture. Cleo flicked her tail with imperious disinterest.
Norah set her laptop on the coffee table, but instead of opening it, she stared at her phone and listened to the news drone on from the TV in the background. Senator Morris was on a soapbox again. The woman was certainly passionate. Rumor had it she would be announcing a bid for President.
As the news analysts debated the merits of Senator Morris’s ambitious plans, Norah scrolled past Melissa Harris’s name twice, thumb hovering but unwilling to commit.
She couldn’t have called last night, with the lateness of the hour.
But she’d been sure to leave early enough today. It was barely eight.
Melissa had been her roommate junior year at Northwestern.
Econ major, razor-sharp with numbers, but friendlier than Norah had ever been—Melissa could make anyone feel at ease.
They’d bonded over too many all-nighters and a shared love of cheap Thai takeout.
After graduation, Melissa had gone to the SEC, and Norah had cheered her on from a distance, proud of her friend for trying to make a difference.
Now, Norah needed that connection. Needed someone she could trust with what she’d found in the NorthBridge accounts. Another day of analysis hadn’t settled the unease in her gut. But dialing the number felt like crossing a line she couldn’t uncross.
Cleo yawned and stretched, claws grazing the cushion like punctuation. “Fine,” Norah muttered. She hit call.
The line clicked, then rang twice. “Norah!” Melissa’s voice burst through, warm and surprised, followed by the video of a dark-skinned woman with a brightly colored headband holding back her natural hair. “Wow, it’s been ages.”
Norah smiled in spite of herself. “Too long. Hey, there stranger.”
“Oh, don’t even start with hey. I want details. How are you? What are you up to? And don’t say work, because I already know you’re glued to spreadsheets twelve hours a day.”
The corner of Norah’s mouth lifted. “Guilty as charged.”
Melissa laughed, the sound messy and real. “Well, that makes one of us. I was literally finger-painted on this morning.”
“Finger-painted?”
“Yes. Lily got into the tempera set, and before I knew it, she was decorating the kitchen walls. And me. Bright purple. My husband thought it was hilarious. I didn’t, until he reminded me that paint washes off. Eventually.”
Norah let the image sink in. Melissa, in her suburban kitchen, two kids underfoot, a husband laughing at the chaos. It sounded exhausting. It sounded . . . full.
“How old are they now?” Norah asked, quieter than she meant.
“Lily’s five, Max is seven. Absolute maniacs, both of them.” Melissa’s voice softened, though, with something Norah couldn’t miss. Love, unashamed and uncomplicated.
For a moment Norah let herself remember the way she and Marshall used to talk about the future like it was already theirs.
The porch swing he wanted, the dog she insisted would live inside, the names they’d tossed around half-seriously in the kind of late-night talks you thought would stretch forever.
She forced the memory back where it belonged. Buried. Untouchable.
“Anyway,” Melissa went on, “what about you? Last I heard, you were at Summit Capital. Still there?”
“I am.” Norah hesitated. Then, carefully, “And actually, that’s . . . why I called.”
Melissa’s expression shifted instantly, curiosity sharpening. “Uh-oh. That sounds serious.”
Norah exhaled, steadying herself. “I’ve been doing due diligence for an acquisition. And I found something strange in their ledgers.”
She explained the basics—not the technical details, not yet.
“Oh, well. That happens. That’s what we’re here for. Can I ask who it is?”
“NorthBridge Energy.” She went on to explain enough to sketch the outline. Numbers that didn’t align, patterns that bent probability, the kind of distortion you couldn’t wave away with sloppy bookkeeping.
Melissa listened in silence, her expression frozen on the screen. The quiet stretched long enough that Norah wondered if the connection had frozen. She shifted, ready to check the Wi-Fi, when Melissa finally exhaled and leaned closer.
“Norah,” she said, her face an eerie blue in the glow of her own laptop. “Listen to me carefully. Don’t pursue this.”
Norah blinked. “What?”
“I mean it.” Melissa’s mouth tightened. “Drop it. Shred your notes, forget you saw it, and move on with the acquisition.”
Norah sat up straighter, the camera catching the sharp tilt of her chin. “That’s not—Melissa, that’s not how this works. If NorthBridge is hiding fraud, it’s material. The deal could collapse. People could get hurt.”
Melissa’s image flickered slightly as she shook her head.
“You think I don’t know that?” Her voice was sharper now, though her eyes softened as if she wished she didn’t have to say it.
“I know how the system is supposed to work. But I also know how it actually works. And if you’ve stumbled onto what I think you have .
. . the best thing you can do is back away. ”
Norah leaned forward until her reflection overlapped Melissa’s on the black edge of her laptop screen. “You’re not even going to look? I’m not asking for a whistleblower hotline. I just want someone with authority to confirm what I found.”
Melissa sighed, resting her cheek briefly against her fist. The gesture made her look tired, older.
“Norah, you’re smart. Smarter than me. Smarter than most of the people in these marble offices.
” She glanced off-screen, then back. “But you’re also still clinging to this idea that the rules are there to protect you. They’re not. They protect themselves.”
Norah’s hands curled on the edge of her coffee table, the polished wood reflecting her tense posture. “So you’re telling me to ignore it.”
Melissa’s eyes met hers through the grainy connection. “I’m telling you to stay far away.”
The word hit like a stone dropped into her stomach.
Melissa’s tone softened again, her shoulders slumping. “Look, I shouldn’t even be talking about this. But there are cases—files—whole investigations—that never see daylight because someone higher up says they won’t. NorthBridge is one of those. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
A chill prickled across Norah’s skin. “You’re saying it’s bigger than me.”
Melissa’s jaw tightened. “Yes. And I’m saying it’s not just messy. It’s dangerous.”
Norah couldn’t answer.
On screen, Melissa hurried to fill the silence. “Please. Just . . . do your job. Close the books. Let it go.”
“I’ll think about it,” Norah lied.
Melissa gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “That means you won’t. You never could walk away once you had the scent of something.”
Norah’s throat ached with words she couldn’t force out.
“Listen,” Melissa added more gently, her background shifting as a child’s voice squeaked somewhere out of frame. “I should go. Lily’s bedtime story awaits. Goodnight Moon, for the hundredth time.”
Norah managed a small, brittle smile. “Thanks for picking up. Really.”
Melissa’s gaze softened. “Of course. And Norah?”
“Yeah?”
Melissa leaned closer, her face filling the frame. “Be careful.”
The screen went dark.
Norah sat motionless for a long minute, phone heavy in her hand. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen was suddenly too loud.
She pictured Melissa’s kitchen again—purple handprints on the wall, two kids clamoring for attention, a husband leaning against the counter with an easy grin.
That had been the dream once. Not exactly—Marshall had wanted the Midwest, she’d wanted the city—but the bones of it.
Laughter in a kitchen, someone to share the quiet with.
Was he married now? Probably. Maybe kids by now too. The thought ached like a bruise being pressed too hard.
Cleo leapt down from the couch, landing with a soft thud and brushing against Norah’s leg. She scooped the cat up, burying her face in fur that smelled faintly of dust and sunlight.
Melissa’s warning echoed in her head. Don’t pursue this.
But the numbers still burned behind her eyes, jagged and wrong.
She carried Cleo to the window, pressing her forehead lightly against the cool glass. Georgetown’s streets glowed below, headlights threading along the dark. Somewhere across the river, the Capitol dome gleamed—a promise of order, authority, justice. The very things she leaned on as a foundation.
Numbers. Rules. Institutions. They were supposed to hold. They had to.
And yet . . .
Her reflection stared back, eyes too sharp, mouth tight. She didn’t pray. She didn’t even whisper her usual reassurance. Instead, she let the silence thicken, her pulse marking time in the hollow of her throat.
If Melissa was right, the system wasn’t safe.
Which meant Norah was standing on her own. And Summit was in danger of falling into this mass of corruption. She couldn’t let that happen to her firm.
She let Cleo go and watched the cat stalk away, tail flicking. She thought about making tea, about pulling up the NorthBridge files again, about calling Richard in the morning. Instead she sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped tight, and made herself a promise.
Not to pray. Not to hope.
She made a promise to dig deeper and bring this corruption to the light.