“No.
I’m leaving.”
That was when Rochelle’s confidence finally cracked.
James reached the brownstone shortly after midnight.
The house looked untouched.
That disturbed him more than a wrecked bedroom would have.
Sharon’s clothes had not been ripped from closets.
Photographs had not been smashed.
There was no dramatic letter waiting on the bed.
Only absences.
Her passport was gone.
Several practical pieces of clothing were missing.
Her architecture portfolio was gone.
So were the old blueprints he had once mocked.
He walked into the shared study and stopped.
A cabinet drawer stood slightly open.
James pulled it wider.
Financial folders remained inside, but he knew immediately that someone had gone through them.
His phone vibrated.
Not Sharon.
A Scott Capital executive.
James answered impatiently.
“What?”
The voice on the other end was controlled.
“We received a compliance submission tonight.”
James went still.
“From whom?”
“We’re reviewing that now.”
“I’m asking who sent it.”
“And I’m telling you the source isn’t the immediate issue.
The material concerns trading and investment decisions connected to an employee of a competing firm.”
James’s eyes moved slowly toward the empty chair at Sharon’s desk.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Then the review will establish that.
Until we understand what we’re looking at, preserve your records and do not contact anyone who may be connected to the matter about their testimony.”
James laughed once.
“You work for me.”
A pause followed.
“I work for Scott Capital.”
The call ended.
James stared at the phone.
For years, those two things had meant the same thing to him.
At 12:41 a.m., he called Rochelle.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Did you give me anything from your firm?” he demanded.
Silence.
“What?”
“Documents.
Information.
Anything that wasn’t public.”
“You know what we talked about.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Don’t speak to me like I’m one of your employees.”
“Rochelle.
Answer me.”
