My office became a war room, the walls covered in printed financial statements, organizational charts, and photographs. David Aris, my old mentor from the forensic accounting firm, flew in from out of state to help me build the case. He walked into my office on the first day, took one look at the chaotic web of red string and highlighted documents, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He told me I looked like a conspiracy theorist, and I told him that conspiracy theorists were usually just people who knew how to read the footnotes.
We spent the next ten days digging through the public records of every company Croft had ever been affiliated with. We weren’t looking for the money; Croft was too smart to leave the money in his own name. We were looking for the pattern, the behavioral tells, the psychological flaws that every corrupt man eventually reveals. Croft was a narcissist, a man who believed he was the smartest person in every room. Narcissists always leave a trail because they cannot resist taking credit for their own brilliance. On the eleventh night, at two in the morning, I found it.
It was buried in the municipal zoning records for a massive downtown revitalization project Croft had championed five years ago. The project had been awarded to a development firm owned by Croft’s brother-in-law. But the brother-in-law didn’t have the capital to fund the project, and the bank records showed no loans. The money had come from a blind trust registered in the Cayman Islands. I cross-referenced the trust’s registration date with the date Eleanor had opened her first shell company.
They matched perfectly, down to the hour.
Croft wasn’t just using Eleanor to hide his money; he was using her to fund his brother-in-law’s projects, creating a massive, illegal slush fund that he could tap at will.
But public records and circumstantial timing weren’t enough to bring down a man of his stature.
We needed the physical ledger, the actual book where Croft recorded his off-the-books transactions.
Clara had mentioned it in passing during her terrified visit, a small black notebook that Croft kept in the wall safe of his private office.
His private office was located on the top floor of a building he didn’t officially own, a building that was currently hosting the annual Governor’s Charity Gala.
The gala was in three days.
It was a black-tie event attended by every major donor, politician, and socialite in the state.
Croft would be there, holding court, shaking hands, and pretending to be a pillar of the community.
I looked at the floor plan of the building I had pulled from the city’s fire marshal database.
The private office was on the fourth floor, accessible only by a private elevator or the main stairwell.
I told David that I needed to get into that office while Croft was distracted on the ground floor.
David looked at me like I had lost my mind, telling me that breaking and entering was a felony, even if the target was a corrupt politician.
I told him I wasn’t breaking and entering, I was conducting an unauthorized internal audit.
I spent the next two days preparing, not just mentally, but physically.
I went to a high-end boutique and bought a floor-length emerald green gown that cost more than my first car.
I bought a pair of heels that were painful but beautiful, and a clutch purse that was just large enough to hold a high-capacity micro-camera and a set of professional lock-picking tools Mrs. Henderson had given me years ago.
When the night of the gala arrived, I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel room, staring at the woman looking back at me.
My hair was styled in a sleek, elegant updo, my makeup sharp and flawless.
I looked like a wealthy socialite, a woman who belonged in a room full of power and money.
I looked like exactly the kind of woman Richard Croft would underestimate.
I picked up my clutch, feeling the cold, hard weight of the lock-picks inside.
I took a deep breath, letting the calm, cold focus wash over me, the same focus I had used to pack my suitcase at 4:30 a.m. all those years ago.
I walked out of the hotel room, took the elevator down to the lobby, and stepped into the glittering, chaotic world of the charity gala.
The war was about to begin, and I was bringing the fire.
PART-EIGHTEEN
The ballroom of the historic downtown hotel was a sea of flashing cameras, flowing champagne, and hollow laughter.
The air smelled of expensive perfume, roasted meats, and the subtle, metallic tang of old money.
I walked through the grand entrance, my emerald dress catching the light of the massive crystal chandeliers.
I held my head high, my face arranged in a mask of polite, bored amusement.
I navigated the room with practiced ease, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and using it as a prop to keep my hands busy.
My eyes scanned the room, tracking the movements of the security guards and the staff.
There were two guards at the entrance of the private elevator, and one roaming the perimeter of the main floor.
Richard Croft was holding court near the center of the room, surrounded by a gaggle of sycophants and donors.
He looked exactly like his campaign posters: silver-haired, charismatic, with a smile that didn’t reach his cold, calculating eyes.
I watched him for a few minutes, noting the way he checked his watch, the way he subtly directed the flow of the conversation.
He was a man who needed to control every variable, which meant he would eventually need a break from the performance.
At exactly nine-fifteen, Croft excused himself from his group, signaling to a waiter for a fresh drink, and began to walk toward the restrooms.
This was my window.
I set my champagne glass on a passing tray, adjusted my clutch, and began to move.
I didn’t run, I didn’t look suspicious; I walked with the confident, purposeful stride of a woman who knew exactly where she was going.
I bypassed the main elevator and slipped into a narrow hallway that led to the service stairs.
I pushed through the heavy fire door, the noise of the ballroom instantly cutting off, replaced by the quiet hum of the building’s ventilation.
I climbed the four flights of stairs in my heels, my breath coming in short, controlled gasps, my heart hammering against my ribs.
When I reached the fourth floor, I pushed the door open and stepped into the plush, dimly lit carpeted hallway of the executive suites.
There was no one there.
I walked down the hall, my heels making no sound on the thick carpet, until I reached the heavy oak door at the end.
The door was locked, a heavy electronic keypad sitting beside the handle.
I pulled a small, electronic bypass device from my clutch, a tool David had procured from a contact in private security.
I attached it to the keypad, my fingers flying over the tiny screen as it cycled through the access codes.
Ten seconds passed, then twenty, the silence in the hallway pressing in on me like a physical weight.
Then, the light on the keypad turned green, and the lock clicked open.
I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me, and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The office was massive, decorated in dark mahogany and leather, smelling of cigars and expensive scotch.
The walls were lined with framed photographs of Croft shaking hands with presidents and governors.
I ignored the vanity and walked straight to the large painting hanging behind the desk.
I carefully lifted the heavy canvas, revealing a digital wall safe.
It was a biometric safe, requiring a fingerprint and a six-digit code.
I couldn’t bypass the fingerprint, but I didn’t need to.
I pulled out the micro-camera and began to photograph the dust patterns around the keypad.
Croft was a creature of habit, a man who used the same code for everything because his ego wouldn’t allow him to forget.
I looked at the smudges on the keys, identifying the six numbers he used most frequently.
I tried the most common combinations of those numbers, starting with his birthday, then his election dates.
On the fourth try, the safe door popped open with a soft hiss.
Inside, there were no stacks of cash, no illegal weapons.
There was just a single, small black leather notebook.
I pulled it out, my hands steady, and opened it to the first page.
It was a masterpiece of corruption, a detailed ledger of every bribe, every payoff, every illegal donation, complete with dates, amounts, and the names of the judges and police chiefs who had been bought.
I placed the notebook on the desk and began to photograph every single page, the flash of the camera muted but the digital shutter clicking rapidly in the quiet room.
I was halfway through the book when the doorknob to the office suddenly turned.
I froze, my blood turning to ice water.
The door pushed open, and Richard Croft stepped inside, closing the door behind him and locking it.
He turned around, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and saw me standing by his desk.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face, and he told me I was a very long way from home, Maya.
