Chapter 3 - The Midnight Audit
By 1:30 a.m., my craftsman home was quiet once more, save for the rhythmic clattering of mechanical keyboards in the library.
The dinner guests had fled within fifteen minutes of the arrest, leaving their unfinished prime rib and half-empty wine glasses abandoned on the table. The catering staff had quietly cleared the dishes, packed their equipment, and departed, leaving me with Arthur Ross, Dr. Vance, and three forensic accounting partners from PriceWaterhouse.
I sat in the leather wingback chair beside the river-stone fireplace, wearing a clean navy cashmere cardigan over my shoulders. A cold compress rested against my bruised lip, and a hot mug of chamomile tea sat on the low mahogany table beside me.
Arthur Ross sat at the thirty-foot library table, surrounded by sixty banker's boxes of unsealed corporate ledgers that his team had legally extracted from Natalie’s office at the publishing house two hours earlier.
"The betrayal runs deeper than the one point four million, Beatrice," Arthur said, rotating his laptop screen so I could see the illuminated data columns. "Look at the master publishing schedule Natalie drafted for the upcoming fiscal quarter."
I leaned forward, studying the digital contracts.
My breath hitched in my chest.
"She wasn't just siphoning dividends, Arthur," I whispered, the full scope of the treason settling into my bones like liquid nitrogen.
"She had executed a conditional purchase-and-sale agreement with Apex Global Media—the predatory publishing conglomerate in New York," Arthur confirmed, his voice grave. "Under the terms of the sale, Alden House Books was to be liquidated on January second. All eighty-four backlist authors—including the estate of your late husband and your foundational civil rights memoirs—were to be sold off for digital rights exploitation, the physical distribution warehouse in Ontario was to be demolished, and three hundred long-term employees were to be terminated without severance."
"And Natalie's compensation?"
"A twelve-million-dollar cash payout and a seat on Apex’s executive board in Manhattan," Arthur replied, closing the file with a sharp thud. "She told Apex that you were suffering from early-stage dementia and that she would secure your power of attorney at your birthday dinner tonight."
I closed my eyes, a single, bitter tear tracking down my cheek, burning against the cut on my lip.
I had given that girl everything.
When Clara died, I gave up my private life, my travel, my own retirement savings. I spent nights sleeping on a cot beside Natalie’s bed when she had night terrors about her mother. I taught her how to edit manuscripts, how to respect the written word, how to look an author in the eye and promise them that their voice mattered.
And she had looked at forty years of human artistry and saw only twelve million dollars in scrap value.
"Arthur," I spoke into the warm silence of the library, opening my eyes with an unshakeable, sovereign resolve.
May you like
"Yes, Beatrice?"
"File the emergency corporate petition with the state securities board at dawn. Revoke every digital access credential, change every commercial lock at our offices on Green Street, and notify our senior editorial board that the founder is returning to the executive desk at eight o'clock sharp."
