Chapter 8 - The Signature That Shouldn't Exist|
Vincent stared at the document as if it were a weapon pointed at his chest.
The signature looked exactly like his.
The date was correct.
The authorization number matched a legitimate account used by his organization.
But he had never approved the payment.
“I want a forensic examination,” he said.
Detective Mitchell nodded.
“That will happen. We also need your account of how this authorization system works.”
Vincent explained the process. High-value payments required two approvals: his digital authorization and confirmation from the finance director. The transaction in question showed both.
“Who had access to your digital credentials?” Mitchell asked.
“Me, my executive assistant, the finance director, and Marcus.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not officially.”
Mitchell made a note.
“Did you share your password?”
“No.”
“Could Marcus access your computer?”
“Yes.”
“Could he access your phone?”
“Not without my permission.”
She looked up.
“Could he have obtained your credentials through the company’s system?”
Vincent paused.
“Yes.”
Mitchell’s expression remained neutral.
“Then we need to consider the possibility that your signature was forged electronically.”
“I also need to consider why you’re asking these questions as if I’m a witness instead of a victim.”
“You can be both, Mr. Bellori.”
He disliked her answer because it was accurate.
After Mitchell left, Nora stood by the window of the hospital waiting room. Daniel was receiving treatment and would remain under observation overnight.
Vincent approached her.
“Marcus was trying to implicate me.”
“Maybe.”
“You think I signed that document?”
“No.”
The certainty in her answer surprised him.
“Why not?”
“Because when you lie, you become impatient with the person asking questions. When you’re telling the truth, you get angry at the situation.”
“That is a remarkably specific observation.”
“I clean your house. I’ve had time to observe.”
Vincent almost smiled, but the expression faded.
“What did Marcus mean when he asked about Anthony Vale?”
Nora folded her arms.
“Daniel told me that Anthony was the construction supervisor who argued with Peter. After Daniel’s accident, Anthony tried to contact him. He said the site had been altered before the inspection.”
“Altered how?”
“Safety equipment was removed. Records were changed. Daniel believed someone wanted the accident blamed on the workers.”
Vincent thought of the renovation contract.
“Anthony Vale disappeared two years ago. We believed he stole money and fled.”
“Did you investigate?”
“My people did.”
“Did you personally read the report?”
Vincent opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
He remembered Marcus bringing him a stack of documents after a long day of meetings. He remembered signing several summaries without reading every page.
It was the kind of shortcut he had taken a hundred times.
A dangerous shortcut.
“I approved the final summary,” he admitted. “I didn’t read every supporting document.”
Nora looked at him with disappointment, but not contempt.
“Then someone used your trust as a weapon.”
“Yes.”
“And you let them.”
The truth hurt.
“Yes.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Vincent said, “I can’t undo what happened to your brother. But I can help establish what was done to him.”
Nora nodded.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
At midnight, Rocco brought Vincent a laptop recovered from Peter Sloane’s office. The device contained encrypted folders, incomplete accounting files, and a series of emails between Bellweather Consulting and an unknown recipient.
One email referred to the shooting as the final contingency.
Another said, If Bellori survives, the medical situation should make control easier to transfer.
Vincent read the line twice.
They had not merely wanted him dead.
They had prepared for his survival.
His disability had been treated as a business opportunity.
“Can you identify the sender?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Rocco replied. “But one account used the initials C.W.”
Vincent went very still.
Camille Whitmore.
His fiancée.
Rocco continued quickly.
“We don’t know if it was her account. The initials could be coincidental, or someone could have used her name.”
Vincent looked at the screen.
For months, Camille had told visitors that he was too fragile to manage his affairs. She had attended private lunches with Marcus and helped arrange meetings he never knew about.
Had she been part of the plan?
Or had she simply seen an opportunity after the shooting?
The distinction mattered, but neither possibility was easy to face.
“I want her financial records reviewed,” Vincent said. “Lawfully. Through the investigators.”
Rocco nodded.
“And don’t confront her without the detective present.”
Vincent looked at him sharply.
“Do you think I’ve lost my mind?”
“I think you’re hurt, angry, and looking for someone to blame.”
The answer surprised Vincent more than the accusation.
Rocco had served him for twelve years. He had rarely spoken so plainly.
Vincent looked down at his hands.
“Perhaps I am.”
Rocco softened.
“Then let the evidence lead. Not the pain.”
Later that morning, Vincent returned to the mansion with Nora after ensuring Daniel was safe in the hospital. Camille was waiting in the sitting room, dressed in cream silk, her hair immaculate.
She looked irritated rather than worried.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve called you seventeen times.”
Vincent wheeled into the room.
“You were counting?”
“Your staff wouldn’t tell me anything. I had to hear from Marcus that you’d gone chasing after some employee’s brother.”
Nora stopped in the doorway.
Camille glanced at her uniform.
“How touching. Have we started rescuing the entire city now?”
Vincent’s voice turned cold.
“Leave Nora out of this.”
Camille laughed.
“You’ve barely spoken to her for six weeks, and now she’s your trusted adviser?”
“She has more honesty in one finger than half the people in this house.”
Camille’s expression hardened.
“What exactly has she told you?”
The question came too quickly.
Vincent noticed.
He reached into the folder Rocco had given him and placed a printed email on the table.
Camille’s eyes dropped to it.
For the first time in eight months, she looked genuinely afraid.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Tell me, Camille. What does the account with your initials have to do with the night I was shot?”
Her lips parted.
No answer came.
Then she looked at Nora and whispered, “You have no idea what you’ve dragged into this house.”
Nora’s face went pale.
Because Camille wasn’t looking at Vincent when she said it.
May you like
She was looking at Nora.
And she sounded as though she knew exactly who Nora’s brother really was.
