Chapter Eight—Chris #2
“That Lorna’s public-facing business exposed more information than she understood and your household staff had already been vetted.”
The conversation with Camille returns. Two million people.
Willa continues. “At the time, neither statement was inherently unreasonable. Your wife does have a highly visible public presence. Your employees had been screened.”
Fenton had described Lorna as bored and overfocused on ordinary events. Willa had described a person with access to private information.
I chose the explanation that required less from me.
My phone chimes. The secure link has arrived. I forward it to Willa so we can see it better on her laptop instead of my phone.
The camera is mounted in the service corridor outside the kitchen entrance. It doesn’t show the interior hallway where Lorna was attacked. It shows the service elevator at one end, our service door at the other, and several feet of corridor between them.
The timestamp reads eleven-twenty. Nothing moves for more than six minutes.
At eleven twenty-six, the alarm event appears on the separate report beside Willa’s laptop.
DISARMED. OWNER CODE.
Eight seconds later, the service door opens on camera.
A person enters the corridor from the service stairwell side. Dark clothing. Gloves. A cap pulled low. Fabric covers the lower half of the face.
The person goes directly to our door. They don’t pause or look at the unit numbers.
The door opens, and the figure disappears inside.
Willa lets the footage run.
For almost ten minutes, the corridor remains empty.
I know what is happening beyond that door because Lorna told me.
At eleven thirty-seven, the service door opens again. The same person steps into the corridor, pulls the door closed, and walks away.
At eleven-forty, the alarm is rearmed with my code.
Willa stops the recording.
“Play it again.”
She does.
There is no struggle on the screen. No view of the hallway. Just an unidentified person entering my home before my wife wakes injured on the floor.
The second viewing is worse because there is nothing left for me to question.
My own words from the hotel return.
I need you to consider the possibility that what you remember isn’t exactly what happened.
I look away from the laptop. “Lorna was telling the truth.”
She doesn’t sugar-coat it. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry I needed this to believe her.”
Willa doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t need to. Judgment radiates from her.
I point to the access report. “Who has the full alarm code?”
“You, Lorna, and Fenton. Your housekeeper has a restricted code.”
“Then everybody with access gets checked.”
“They have been.” Willa takes out another sheet.
“Your housekeeper was in Columbia with her daughter. We have a fuel purchase outside Orangeburg that evening, photographs from her daughter’s home, and a receipt the following morning.
The maintenance supervisors weren’t in the building.
Their credentials also don’t match the category used at eleven twenty-six. ”
“And Fenton?”
“Police checked him thoroughly because he has both household access and your alarm code.” She turns the page toward me.
“His company account was active continuously from a little after eleven until shortly after midnight. File revisions, calendar changes, uploads, outgoing messages, and server activity all originated through his registered home network and authenticated work session.”
I read down the list.
11:14 PM. Authenticated login.
11:18 PM. Contract revision.
11:22 PM. Calendar update.
11:27 PM. Document save.
11:31 PM. Outgoing email.
11:34 PM. File upload.
11:38 PM. Second file opened.
11:42 PM. Revision saved.
11:47 PM. Calendar entry modified.
11:52 PM. Outgoing email.
11:56 PM. Document upload.
12:03 AM. Account activity continues.
The attack sits in the middle of an uninterrupted work session.
“All from his apartment?”
“His registered home network. The pattern is consistent with his normal after-hours work.”
I compare the timestamps with the access report.
Eleven twenty-six, someone enters our unit.
Eleven twenty-seven, Fenton saves a work file from home.
Eleven thirty-one, an email leaves his account.
Eleven thirty-four, another upload.
I exhale shakily, relieved. “He couldn’t have done it.”
“No.” Willa doesn’t qualify the answer. “The police eliminated him. Based on what I have, I agree.”
I read his name once more, then move on. “Then somebody got my code.”
“Or obtained it from somebody with access to it.”
I stand and go into the kitchen. My coffee is still beside the sink. I pour it out and rinse the mug while I think.
When I return, Willa is separating the records into stacks.
“I want every code changed today.”
“That’s sensible.”
“The service access too.”
She nods. “Building management controls those credentials.”
“They can revoke every one associated with this unit and reissue them.”
“That’s what I’d recommend.”
I call downstairs. Gerald transfers me to the property manager. Every household credential gets revoked. Every temporary vendor authorization is canceled. New access requires direct approval.
Then I call the alarm company. My existing code goes away. Lorna’s remains active. Every other full-access user is removed.
When the representative asks whether I want another administrator, Fenton’s name nearly comes out from habit, but I stop. “No additional administrator.”
“Sir?”
“Only me.”
I look at Willa. “Can Lorna authorize you separately for alerts?”
“Yes.”
“Do it through her.”
Willa nods.
The calls take twenty-three minutes. I end the last one and look at the phone. “I could’ve done that months ago.”
Willa doesn’t answer.
I don’t need her to. She obviously agrees. It’s clear she doesn’t like me, but I can’t fault her for that. I’m relieved her loyalty is solely to Lorna. “What happens now?”
“I give the footage and records to the police and keep working through the access list.”
“I want an independent investigator too.”
She nods once. “That’s reasonable.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
Willa closes the portfolio.
“I need to see Lorna.”
Her hands stop.
“Where is she?”
She meets my gaze without flinching. “I won’t tell you.”
I expected the answer and still hate it. “I want to apologize.”
She raises her left eyebrow slightly but remains mostly neutral. “Then you can ask her to speak with you.”
“She won’t answer.”
“That’s her choice.”
I look toward my jacket. “I could find her.”
She frowns. “I’m aware.”
“I haven’t.” I sound like I’m expecting praise for my restraint.
She’s thoroughly unimpressed. “Keep doing that.” Willa picks up the portfolio.
I follow her toward the elevator. “Is she all right?”
She hesitates as though deciding what to share. “She’s safer, sleeping better, and working again.”
“Is she still afraid?” A lump fills my throat.
“Sometimes.” She’s blunt.
That answer is enough to quiet every other question. The elevator opens before I can think of anything else to say.
“I’ll tell her you’ve seen the footage,” Willa says. “Anything after that is up to her.”
She steps inside, and the doors close.
I stay beside the table for several minutes before putting on my jacket. The rings settle into the pocket when I reach for my keys.
I know exactly what Willa advised me not to do but leave anyway.
Willa’s black SUV pulls out of the visitor garage while I’m coming down from the resident level.
I follow.
There’s no way to make the decision respectable. I know that before I clear the garage. I need to see my wife, and she’s my best chance of finding her today. For all I know, Willa is heading back to her office, but I have to try.
Willa heads north through downtown and takes I-26, making me more optimistic that she’s heading to Lorna. I stay several cars behind. Twenty-six minutes later, she exits the interstate, crosses the overpass, and turns into a gas station.
My phone rings before I park. My stomach clenches when I see Willa’s name on the caller ID.
She doesn’t wait for a greeting when I accept the call. “You’ve been behind me since Meeting Street.”
I clear my throat. “I know.”
“Then you know I haven’t taken you anywhere near Lorna.”
I wince. “No, but I’d hoped you were.”
Other than a dismissive snort, she ignores that. “Park.”
She disconnects, and I park. I feel like I used to when my father would call me into his study for a talk after I misbehaved.
Willa is outside her SUV when I get out. “You followed me after your wife specifically asked not to be found.”
I look down, feeling like that ashamed boy again. “Yes.”
“Why?”
I look toward the highway. “I wanted to see her.”
She scowls. Her polite neutrality has completely vanished. “That’s not permission.”
“No. I shouldn’t have done this, but I need to see her.”
The answer takes some of the force out of whatever she was preparing to say. Finally, she says, “This is about what Lorna needs, not you.”
Ouch, direct hit. I instantly nod, recognizing the truth in her words.
“I shouldn’t have followed you. If you tell me to, I’ll go back. I won’t try again.”
Willa watches me. “No investigator. No property search. No Aldren Capital resources?”
“No.”
“No staff?”
“No.”
“All right.”
She takes out her phone. “I’ll ask her, because she didn’t authorize me to speak on her behalf.”
I quietly accept that dig at my arrangement with Fenton. I can see why she disapproved of the carte blanche I gave Fenton to act on my behalf. He’s skilled and competent, but he went too far, and I let that happen.
Lorna answers. “It’s me,” Willa says. “Everything there is fine. This isn’t an emergency.”
She walks a few yards away, lowering her voice, but I can still hear her.
“Chris followed me from the penthouse. I caught him before we got out of the Charleston area. He doesn’t know where you are.”
She pauses.
“He saw the footage.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Willa looks at me once.
“He wants to see you. If you say no, I’m sending him back.”
Lorna is either speaking or thinking, and it’s almost a minute before Willa asks, “Are you sure?”
I straighten.
“All right. I’ll bring him.” She ends the call and returns. “Lorna says you can come.” She clearly disapproves.