Chapter 2: The Weight of the Numbers
I crossed the remaining feet of the hallway in two long strides, my gaze locked on Elena before I dropped to one knee beside Maria. The boy reached out blindly, his small hands clutching desperately at my lapel as I scooped him up into my arms. I pulled him tight against my chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat match the frantic rhythm of my own. I glared down at Maria, who remained kneeling on the cold marble, her breathing shallow and uneven.
“Mr. Vance,” Maria repeated, her voice trembling as she held out the stack of papers with shaking fingers. “Look at these. I was dusting the side table in her private study when the printer jammed. These came out. Page after page. Moving money out of the primary education trust into offshore accounts.”
I took the papers with my free hand, the crisp texture of the financial documents feeling surreal against my fingertips. Elena finally moved, stepping closer, her heels clicking sharply against the stone. Her face remained a mask of practiced indifference, though a tiny muscle pulsed near her jawline.
“Arthur, don't be absurd,” Elena said, her voice smooth, dripping with condescension. “The maid was snooping through my private correspondence. She has no idea what she's looking at. It's routine portfolio reallocation. You hired someone incompetent, and now she's making up stories to save her job after I caught her going through my things.”
I ignored her voice, focusing my attention on the columns of numbers printed on the sheets. My eyes scanned the headers, the routing numbers, the account identifiers. These weren't routine investments. These were complete liquidations. The primary savings fund established by my grandfather for my son's future education and medical security was being siphoned dry, dollar by dollar, over the past three months.
“Routine?” I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that made Elena pause mid-sentence. I shifted the boy gently, holding him with one arm while I turned the pages, reading the columns of figures that spelled out betrayal in black and white ink.
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“Arthur, give me those papers right now,” Elena demanded, stepping forward and reaching for the stack. Her poised demeanor was beginning to fray, the edges of her defensive wall cracking under the intense scrutiny of my gaze.
I pulled the papers back, my eyes snapping up to meet hers. The public glamour she wore so effortlessly—the charity galas, the designer dresses, the polished smile—suddenly looked like a shroud covering something rotten.
