Chapter Eight—Chris
WILLA TREMAINE CALLS me at nine-sixteen Tuesday morning while I’m standing in the kitchen drinking coffee I made because Lorna isn’t here to make it better. I answer immediately, hoping she’s heard from her.
“Mr. Aldren, I need to meet with you today. I don’t want to do it by phone.”
I set the mug beside the sink. “Is Lorna all right?”
“She’s safe.”
The answer gives me enough relief to make room for the rest of it. “What’s happened?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere private. Your office isn’t appropriate.”
I hesitate before suggesting the obvious place. “The penthouse?”
“That works. I can be there by ten-thirty.”
“Come straight up. I’ll tell Gerald.”
After I agree, the call ends. I carry my coffee to the island, open the financing memo waiting on my laptop, and read the same paragraph three times without understanding any of it.
Willa hasn’t called me directly since the morning after the attack, when she told me Lorna had left the hotel and wouldn’t say where she’d gone.
Since then, I’ve received brief confirmations that Lorna is safe and nothing more.
I haven’t asked Willa to violate her confidence because I already know what the answer would be.
The restraint hasn’t come naturally. I could have found Lorna several times over by now. I’ve chosen not to. Some days that choice has required more effort than anything I’ve done at work.
I abandon the memo and take my coffee toward the windows. The rings are in the inside pocket of the jacket hanging over a dining chair. I’ve carried them everywhere for almost a week, moving them from jacket to jacket each morning rather than leaving them in the apartment.
At ten-twenty-eight, the elevator opens.
Willa steps into the penthouse wearing jeans, boots, and a dark jacket. A leather portfolio is tucked under one arm. I start toward the kitchen.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
She doesn’t waste time on anything else. Willa crosses to the dining table and waits until I join her before opening the portfolio.
“Before I show you what I found, you need to understand how I obtained it.” She places a sheet of paper in front of me.
“After my protection contract was terminated, I contacted Lorna directly. She retained me herself and signed written authorization for me to investigate the attack and obtain records related to her residence.”
Lorna’s signature is at the bottom. I look at the date. Five days after she left Charleston. “She hired you herself?”
“Yes.”
I frown. “I thought the engagement ended because she’d left.”
“My firm didn’t end it.” Willa sits opposite me. “We were informed the client no longer required protective services.”
“By Fenton.”
“By your office. Fenton was the person communicating with us.”
I rub the side of my forehead. “I didn’t tell him to cancel it.”
“I assumed you hadn’t after I spoke with Lorna.”
“What did he tell your firm?”
She lifts a shoulder. “That the immediate concern had passed because Mrs. Aldren was no longer maintaining her usual public schedule and would not require coverage going forward.”
I stare at her. “He made that decision himself.”
“That’s what the correspondence indicates.”
I scowl. “So you called Lorna?”
“Not immediately. I tried the number I had for her after I learned the contract had been terminated. She didn’t answer. Eventually, she sent one message confirming she was safe and wanted distance. I respected that until I had a reason to contact her again.”
“What changed?”
She shifts slightly. “I found enough inconsistencies that I needed her authorization to dig further.”
That word gets my attention. “What inconsistencies?”
Willa slides the first record across the table. “This is from the building’s security company. Lorna authorized me to request records relating to access around the time of the assault.”
I read the line she has marked.
11:26:18 PM. SERVICE ACCESS. AUTHORIZED.
“The service entrance on your floor was opened at eleven twenty-six with an authorized credential,” she says. “The system records the access category but not the identity of the person carrying the credential.”
I look at the page again. “What category?”
“Household and service access. It includes building personnel approved for that floor, certain vendors, household staff with credentials, and people your household specifically authorized.”
My stomach churns. “How many?”
“I have a list.” She takes out another page and places it beside the first.
There are fewer names than I expected. Gerald isn’t on it because his building credential doesn’t provide residential-floor service access without a resident request. Two maintenance supervisors are listed. Our housekeeper. A cleaning supervisor. Fenton.
I stop at his name. “He has one because I authorized it.”
“According to the building records, yes. Deliveries, vendor coordination, and emergency access.”
I remember signing something when Fenton took over more household logistics. I don’t remember the form itself but probably signed it in a group with a dozen others. “What time did Lorna wake up?”
“She checked the microwave at eleven-forty-one. The call to your number was placed several minutes later.”
I look at the entry again. Eleven twenty-six. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Approximately.”
“Was there an exit?”
She shakes her head. “The credential isn’t required to leave through that door. It only controls entry.”
“So whoever went in could leave without producing another event?”
“Yes.”
I set the page down. “The police didn’t find this?”
“They checked whether the building had recorded a forced entry or an alarm. They didn’t request a complete credential-access history that night.”
I think about the officer telling Lorna there was no evidence anybody came inside, but there was.
Nobody looked deeply enough to find it, including me.
Willa watches me for a moment before reaching for two more documents. “This is the second issue.”
The first report is four pages. The second is one paragraph. “This is the threat assessment I submitted six months ago.”
I start reading before she finishes.
Dates. Deliveries. Photographs. Private information appearing in anonymous messages. A pattern of escalation that grows clearer as I move down the page.
Then the recommendation.
Increase residential coverage. Expand protective detail. Review household access. Audit information leakage from vendors, building personnel, and personal staff.
I read that section twice. “This is what you recommended?”
“Yes.”
“You told us to increase coverage six months ago?”
“Yes.”
I pick up the other document.
Ms. Tremaine recommends maintaining current protocols while continuing to document unwanted contact. No immediate operational changes required.
I’ve seen that sentence before. I remember reading it on a flight and thinking Willa was recommending exactly what we were already doing.
I lower the page. “This is what came to me.”
“I assumed so.”
“Who wrote it?”
She holds my gaze. “I don’t know. My report went to the contact your office designated for security matters. The summary returned through your internal process.”
I grimace. “Fenton handles security vendors.”
“I’m aware.”
I look at the four-page report again. “Why didn’t you contact me when nothing changed?”
“I did.”
My gaze snaps back to her.
Willa opens the portfolio again and removes copies of two emails.
“I sent follow-up questions after the first month because the residential recommendation hadn’t been implemented.
I received responses from your office that you had reviewed the assessment and wanted to maintain the current arrangement. ”
I take the pages. The messages came from Fenton’s work account.
Chris is comfortable maintaining the present level for now. Continue documenting and advise if circumstances materially change.
I read it twice. “I never said this.”
“I know that now.”
“I didn’t even see your recommendation.”
“No.”
I glare at her, aware I’m misdirecting anger but unable to bite back the words. “Why didn’t you call me?”
She doesn’t even blink. “I couldn’t get through to you. Fenton was the authorized point of contact for the engagement, and the response represented itself as your decision.”
She rests her forearms on the table. “Mr. Aldren, this isn’t unusual in executive protection. Principals delegate. Chiefs of staff and assistants make decisions within established authority every day.”
“So Fenton didn’t do anything that would have looked abnormal from your side?” I can breathe a bit easier.
“Not at the time.”
That matters and should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I still chose the arrangement that made it possible for somebody else to decide for me whether my wife needed protection.
Willa takes out her laptop. “The access record made me go back through everything from the night of the attack. The building told police the local surveillance recording had been corrupted. Their security company keeps an automatic server backup outside the building’s local system.”
“The footage exists?” My mouth is dry.
“Yes.”
“Have you watched it?”
“No. Lorna’s authorization gives me access to records concerning her residence and the assault, but this camera includes part of the private service entrance to your unit. The company requires authorization from the owner before releasing the video.”
I understand after a second. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
I reach for my phone. “Who do I call?”
Willa gives me the number.
The process takes nine minutes. I verify my identity, confirm ownership of the unit, and sign a release sent to my email. While we wait for the secure link, I read the four-page assessment again.
There is a sentence halfway down the third page that stops me.
Current incident pattern suggests the subject possesses access to information not readily available through public sources. Household information-security review strongly recommended.
I tap it. “Did you explain this to Fenton?”
“We discussed it twice.”
“What did he say?”