wry face. “I’m going to go talk to the head of security, but he’s only been here a few years, and I doubt we’ll come up with anything. Go ahead and pack this up, please. I just want to get this over with.”
When he leaves, I dive right in. I start with the knickknacks, carefully bubble-wrapping the golf trophies and boxing them up, dusting as I go. Next, I pack the fashion magazines, resisting the urge to sit down and flip through them. Retro fashion is my jam, but I need to just hurry up and get through this, for Blake’s peace of mind.
Once the magazines are all boxed up, I move on to the files from the desk drawers.
I empty out all the drawers except the one that sticks. That one, I yank at violently, but it fails to budge. Finally I fetch a letter opener and I keep working it until it flies open.
As it opens, a thick envelope falls onto the floor. There’s tape on the back, as if it had been stuck to the top of the drawer above it, but the tape must have given way over time.
I sit there in Mr. Hudson’s massive overstuffed chair, staring at the envelope. This thing was important enough to hide – and is very likely what someone was in here searching for. I should show it to Blake right away.
Or should I?
He said he couldn’t face going through his father’s things. I hope it’s something harmless, but who hides harmless files by taping them underneath a drawer? If it’s blackmail pictures of his dad and some starlet, I’ll give it to Henry instead and let him decide the best course of action.
I open it up and pull out a sheaf of papers. On top of the sheaf is a hand-written letter, in big loopy letters, written in ink from a fountain pen. "Bill: This is your last chance. I'm sick of putting in more than my fair share. Your hands aren’t clean either, and I have the proof. You're going to pay the rest of this off, or I will expose you to everybody. I’ll go down too, and I don’t care. It doesn't matter anymore; I'm not going to keep living like a pauper. It’s not worth going on like this.”
It isn’t signed, but I’ve seen Raymond’s distinctive handwriting before on vintage Hudson’s advertising posters. And who else would it be?
A chill sweeps over me, raising the hairs on my arms. With shaking fingers, I flip through the papers beneath the letter. As far as I can figure out, these are Hudson’s bank accounts from the 1990s. There seem to be a lot of bank withdrawals, in the tens of thousands of dollars each. Overall, it would add up to at least hundreds of thousands, probably millions.
I sink into the chair, and a cloud of dust explodes, setting off a sneezing fit so intense it brings tears to my eyes.
What the hell am I going to do with this?
Blake thinks his father walked on water. If I tell him about this, it's going to devastate him. But how can I not tell him? Also, his uncle is a sleaze and a thief, and he’s the company’s chief financial officer. He could do an enormous amount of harm.
My mind is spinning with panic. Okay, I’m no financial whiz. I’ve got to verify what this is before I go flinging around accusations against Blake’s father. I mean, I’m pretty sure, but I’m not a hundred percent sure, and once I say the words, “The man you’ve worshipped your whole life was a thief and a fraud,” they can’t be unsaid.
I set the paperwork aside and return to my work. My knees are weak and I’m sick to my stomach, but I force myself to race through it all. Once I’ve finished packing and dusting, I shove the paperwork into my purse.
With a heavy heart, I rush past Blake’s office and take the elevator to the first floor. Once I’m there, I pull out my phone and send a message to Blake.
Everything is boxed up in the office and waiting to be taken away. Something came up, minor emergency, I have to run home.
Home in my kitchen, the stack of paperwork staring at me accusingly, I perch on my rickety chair and rack my brains thinking of who I might call for help. I finally settle on Clarita’s husband Nestor. He owns a garage – he’ll be used to looking