Chapter 4 - THE SEVENTEEN MISSING MINUTES
Julian Cross had not entered my penthouse in five years.
At least not physically.
The access logs proved that.
No keycard.
No elevator credential.
No visitor authorization.
But his old administrator certificate had never been fully retired from the architectural systems backbone.
That was my mistake.
Mine.
The apartment had been one of Arden International’s experimental residences.
Julian designed the integration layer while I designed structural and privacy systems.
After our partnership ended, the company migrated most software.
My residence remained on an older build.
I knew.
I delayed replacement because illness consumed everything.
Now somebody had used Julian’s certificate remotely.
From where?
The connection had bounced through several commercial servers.
That did not automatically mean Julian.
Credentials can be stolen.
Samuel said:
“We do not contact him yet.”
I agreed.
Then investigators reconstructed the seventeen missing minutes from secondary systems.
Not video.
Door sensors.
Temperature sensors.
Elevator logs.
Network traffic.
At 9:12 p.m. the previous night, David entered the kitchen.
At 9:14, the camera archive stopped.
At 9:16, Jessica arrived.
At 9:23, the freezer opened.
At 9:25, the trash chute sensor activated.
At 9:29, video returned.
The missing container may have gone down the trash chute.
Building waste had already been compacted.
Recovery unlikely.
Jessica’s attorney contacted Samuel that morning.
She wanted to speak.
Not because she had become good overnight.
Because she understood what the footage could show.
I agreed to let investigators interview her.
I watched remotely.
Jessica looked smaller without the red dress.
Gray sweater.
Hair pulled back.
No makeup.
Still Jessica.
She began:
“I knew David was giving Claire medication.”
The prosecutor asked:
“What medication?”
“He said it was prescribed.”
“Did you ever see a prescription bottle?”
“No.”
“What did you see?”
“A small lab container.”
“Did you ask?”
“He said it was a concentrated supplement that made her sleep.”
“You believed him?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
She stared at the table.
“No.”
“When did you stop believing?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“He said Claire would not make it to the end of the month.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
There.
No hero.
No excuse.
She stayed.
Measured my bedroom.
Slapped me.
Planned curtains.
Then:
“Yesterday he told me he needed to increase it.”
“Did you help?”
“No.”
“Did you remove the container?”
Jessica looked frightened.
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
She hesitated.
Then:
“Someone called him.”
“Who?”
“I never heard a name.”
“What did David say?”
Jessica closed her eyes.
“He said, ‘You promised me she would be dead before the board meeting.’”
I felt cold.
Board meeting.
My company.
Not inheritance alone.
The next Arden Holdings board meeting was four days away.
Why would my death matter?
My trusts already separated much of my wealth from David.
But very few people knew that.
Maybe David did not.
The caller might.
The prosecutor asked:
“What did the voice say?”
Jessica:
“I could barely hear. Something about a transfer.”
“What transfer?”
“I don’t know.”
Then another detail.
After the call, David became furious.
He told Jessica:
“If Claire dies after Thursday, I get nothing useful.”
Nothing useful.
That was different from:
I get nothing.
David wanted something time sensitive.
Samuel and I reviewed the board agenda.
Routine items.
Budget.
Director renewal.
Patent royalty review.
One large item:
Meridian Harbor Redevelopment.
A twenty six billion dollar Manhattan infrastructure project.
Arden Holdings owned the design control patents and option rights on two critical sites.
I chaired the special approval committee.
If I died or became incapacitated before Thursday, the committee charter shifted interim authority to the vice chair.
Who?
Julian Cross.
My former partner.
There it was.
I looked at Samuel.
He said:
“Do not jump.”
I knew.
Julian’s credential.
Julian’s temporary authority.
A caller wanting me dead before board meeting.
Connected facts.
Not proof Julian ordered anything.
Then my eye tracker received a secure corporate notification.
Someone had submitted a request for emergency incapacity recognition.
Applicant:
David Langley.
Supporting documents:
My terminal diagnosis.
Neurological decline.
Statement from spouse.
If granted by the board’s independent medical panel, I could lose voting authority before death.
Who had helped David prepare it?
Outside attorney:
Mason Reed.
Referred by:
Julian Cross.
My chest tightened.
Samuel whispered:
“Now we call him.”
Julian answered on the third ring.
His face appeared on screen.
Older than I remembered.
Gray at temples.
Still sharp.
He saw me in the hospital bed.
His expression broke.
“Claire.”
I typed:
DID YOU GIVE DAVID MASON REED?
Julian stared.
Then:
“Yes.”
Samuel leaned forward.
“Why?”
“David told me Claire wanted independent incapacity planning.”
I typed:
HE LIED.
Julian closed his eyes.
“I understand that now.”
“Did you use your penthouse administrator certificate yesterday?”
“No.”
“Do you still possess the token?”
Julian looked toward something offscreen.
Then froze.
“No.”
Samuel:
“What?”
“It was in my office safe.”
“Was?”
Julian stood.
His camera moved.
A wall safe.
Open.
Empty slot.
“My old Arden hardware token is gone.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Monday.”
“Who can access the office?”
“My assistant. Building security. Two partners.”
“And?”
Julian stopped.
“My daughter.”
A daughter I barely knew existed.
Age twenty seven.
Name:
Sophie Cross.
Occupation:
Interior architect.
Employer:
Jessica Vale Design.
May you like
Jessica’s firm.
Continue to the next part: The stolen credential that erased Claire’s camera footage may have passed through the same design firm that sent Jessica into her bedroom.
