Chapter 3 - The Photograph They Kept
Malcolm denied knowing about the photograph.
Cordelia denied it too.
That was possible.
Large companies contain files executives never see.
Ronan refused to treat discovery as guilt.
Instead, he ordered a forensic preservation request sent to Vance Capital through counsel.
The gala ended.
Not elegantly.
Guests were released in groups after basic contact information was collected.
Hotel security did not physically detain anyone beyond legal authority.
Police arrived regarding Della’s assault.
Cordelia gave a statement.
She claimed Della had moved into her path and that contact with the mirror was accidental.
The lobby cameras showed otherwise.
Cordelia grabbing Della’s hair.
The shove.
The second attempted strike.
Ronan intervening.
No ambiguity.
Cordelia’s attorney arrived before midnight.
Della went to Northwestern Memorial for evaluation.
The baby’s heartbeat remained steady.
No abdominal injury appeared.
Her palm required five stitches.
The doctor advised rest.
Della cried only after she heard the heartbeat.
Not because she suddenly became fragile.
Because she had spent three hours refusing to imagine the alternative.
When she left the hospital, Ronan was waiting downstairs.
“You did not need to stay.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
He looked at the bandage on her hand.
“Because seven years ago you stayed.”
Della did not know how to answer.
Ronan’s driver took her home.
Before she entered her apartment, Ronan handed her a business card.
“My direct number.”
“I do not need money.”
“I did not offer money.”
“People like you usually do when they feel guilty.”
Something almost like amusement crossed his face.
“Then call if anyone contacts you about Palmer Warehouse.”
That removed the humor.
“You think they will?”
“I think someone kept your photograph for seven years.”
Della looked at the card.
“Why?”
“That is what worries me.”
The answer came sooner than either expected.
At eight the next morning, Della found her apartment door unlocked.
Nothing obvious had been stolen.
Television remained.
Laptop remained.
Cash inside her kitchen jar remained.
Only one thing was missing.
A small cardboard box from the top shelf of her closet.
Seven years earlier, after leaving the police station, Della had emptied her diner apron pockets into that box.
Bus receipt.
Broken name badge.
A black cufflink she found beside the injured man.
And a business card dropped near the warehouse.
The card read:
VANCE CAPITAL.
She had forgotten it existed until three weeks earlier when she moved apartments and reopened the box.
She brought one item from it to work the previous night.
The cufflink.
Why?
Because its unusual silver crest reminded her of the antique pattern on Ashworth Grand serving trays.
She had wondered whether there was a connection.
The cufflink remained inside her locker at the hotel.
The box at home was gone.
Someone knew enough to search for it.
Della called Ronan.
He answered immediately.
“My apartment was searched.”
“Leave.”
“I am already outside.”
“Do not go back in.”
Police responded.
No forced entry.
Her landlord confirmed no maintenance visit.
Building footage showed a man wearing a baseball cap enter behind another resident at six fourteen that morning.
He left carrying a small box beneath his coat.
Face obscured.
Ronan arrived after police.
Della almost became angry when she saw him.
“This cannot become my life.”
“It will not.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No.”
He corrected himself.
“You are right.”
That mattered.
He did not tell her she was safe when he could not know.
Police took the burglary report.
Ronan asked about the missing items.
Della described the business card.
His face tightened.
“What name?”
“No person. Just Vance Capital.”
“And the cufflink?”
“At the hotel.”
They returned with police permission to collect it.
Della’s employee locker had not been forced.
The cufflink was where she left it.
Black enamel.
Silver crest.
Ronan held it carefully inside an evidence bag.
“That is my family emblem.”
Della stared at him.
“So it belonged to you.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Ronan turned the cufflink.
The back carried initials.
E A.
His expression changed.
“Elias Ashworth.”
“Who is that?”
“My uncle.”
Della remembered the dark coated man who appeared at the warehouse after police arrived.
The one who spoke quietly to officers.
“Did your uncle work security?”
Ronan looked at her.
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“He was my father’s chief financial officer.”
The old attack had just gained an Ashworth connection.
Ronan called his general counsel.
Elias had died three years earlier.
His archived files remained inside the Ashworth family office.
Before they could search, Ronan received a message from his security director.
An employee had tried accessing those archived files at 7:52 that morning.
User credentials:
May you like
Cordelia Vance.
Continue to the next part: Cordelia attempted to access the dead Ashworth executive’s files only hours after Della’s apartment was searched.
