Chapter 4 - The Ledger of Blood and Ink
The car was a black Maybach with tinted windows thick enough to stop a hunting rifle round. The driver didn’t ask where we were going; he simply pulled away from the Rain Room’s alley and merged into the slick, glittering asphalt of Alaskan Way.
I sat in the plush leather seat, my wet dress finally beginning to freeze me to the bone. Jack reached across the wide console, adjusted the climate control until warm air flooded the cabin, and then pulled a heavy wool throw blanket from the storage compartment, laying it over my lap without a word.
“You aren't what I expected,” he said, staring straight ahead as the Seattle Great Wheel blurred past in the rain.
“What did you expect? Hysterical tears? Throwing a vase?”
“Most spouses confronted with that level of betrayal either collapse or scream,” Jack replied. “You brought receipts.”
“Tears don’t freeze bank accounts, Mr. Thompson.”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” I conceded, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “David always thought he was the smartest person in the room because people were too polite to tell him he was loud. When I realized what he was doing four months ago, I had two choices: file for divorce and let his high-priced lawyers hide sixty percent of our net worth, or build a cage so tight he couldn't breathe without my permission.”
He turned his head to look at me. The city lights flickered across his sharp jawline and the faint, jagged scar running beneath his left cheekbone. There was an assessing, almost predatory curiosity in his gaze, but it wasn't sexual. It was the look of a general who had just discovered an unexpected artillery battery on his flank.
“And Jennifer?” he asked.
“She’s an amateur,” I said bluntly. “She wanted excitement. David wanted her status. They deserved each other, but they didn’t deserve my savings.”
The car ascended Queen Anne Hill, turning into a gated compound fortified by limestone walls and discreet security cameras hidden in wrought-iron lanterns. The gate swung open automatically. We pulled into a private underground garage housing vehicles that cost more than my entire four-bedroom home on Lake Union.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in Jack Thompson’s private office.
It was nothing like David’s ostentatious, glass-and-chrome workspace designed to intimidate clients. Jack’s office was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dark mahogany, and oil paintings of vintage naval vessels navigating stormy seas. A fire crackled in a massive stone hearth.
Jack had poured two glasses of twenty-year-old scotch. He set one before me and took his seat behind an expansive desk clear of everything except a sleek laptop and my manila folder.
“You said he was moving cargo for the Vance family,” I began, taking a cautious sip. The alcohol burned down my throat, searing away the remaining chill. “I saw the routing numbers. The manifest discrepancies originated in Tacoma, but the customs bypass codes were issued from a terminal in Everett.”
Jack paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. His gray eyes narrowed to pinpricks.
“Everett?” he repeated.
“Terminal 4,” I said, opening my clutch and pulling out a tiny USB drive I had kept in the zippered lining. “I copied the encrypted server logs David left on his home workstation last Sunday while he was at ‘golf.’ The authorizations didn’t come from your shipping line, Jack. They came from inside your private logistics software. Someone gave him master-key access.”
Jack’s jaw tightened until the muscles ticked. “Jennifer didn't have those codes.”
“No,” I agreed. “Which means my husband wasn’t just using your wife for access. Someone in your own inner circle was using *them* to build a pipeline right under your nose.”
Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating. Jack didn't explode. He simply leaned back in his leather chair, the firelight catching the cold steel of his gaze. For the first time, I realized the full scope of what I had walked into. This wasn’t just a sordid suburban affair. It was a corporate coup masked as infidelity.
“You’re very good at this, Clare,” Jack said quietly.
“Numbers don’t lie. People do, constantly.”
“If this is true, David isn’t just a thief. He’s a liability to some very violent men who don't like loose ends.” Jack leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “The moment the Vance outfit realizes David failed tonight, they won't just look for him. They’ll look for the person holding the records.”
My fingers tightened around the heavy crystal glass. “They don’t know I have them.”
May you like
“They will by morning,” Jack said. “Which means you aren't going back to Lake Union alone.”
***
