Richard had made it more aggressive.
The villain she wanted was getting larger and older.
“What about Harper?”
Mara hesitated.
Celeste noticed.
“What?”
“The original source file includes another name.”
She slid a printed complaint across the table.
Celeste looked.
HANNAH HARPER.
Her heartbeat stopped.
“Owen’s wife?”
“Apparently.”
“Why would she be in Vale records?”
“She worked at MidCounty Financial.”
Celeste remembered.
The lender that sold Vale the portfolio.
Mara continued:
“Compliance analyst.”
“She submitted this three years ago.”
Celeste read.
The complaint warned that certain commercial accounts were being flagged for targeted acquisition by outside investors after internal customer data was shared improperly.
One of the outside investors named:
Vale North Capital.
The complaint included concerns that small businesses on strategic parcels were being pushed into technical default.
Celeste felt sick.
“Three years.”
Mara nodded.
“What happened to the complaint?”
“MidCounty closed it.”
“Why is it in our system?”
“Because Richard’s team received due-diligence files when we bought the portfolio.”
Celeste turned another page.
A note.
H. HARPER — deceased. No further escalation anticipated.
She stopped breathing.
“Mara.”
“I saw it.”
“No further escalation anticipated.”
Celeste’s voice shook.
“They knew she was dead.”
“They treated her death as risk resolution.”
Mara looked furious.
Celeste stood.
Walked toward the windows.
“What do I tell Owen?”
“The truth.”
“He doesn’t know?”
“Not from us.”
Celeste closed her eyes.
Hannah had died of cancer three years ago.
Around the exact time her complaint disappeared.
No conspiracy in her death.
No thriller.
Something more ordinary.
She got sick.
She died.
A corporation learned the whistleblower could no longer ask questions.
And moved on.
Celeste whispered:
“He thinks the garage is about land.”
“It is.”
“It’s also connected to his wife.”
“Yes.”
She pressed both hands against the window ledge.
For the first time since Christmas Eve, she wanted to hide something.
Not permanently.
Just one day.
Let Owen have New Year’s.
Let Ellie build her model.
Let them breathe before another piece of Hannah returned in the worst possible form.
That instinct frightened her.
This was how concealment started.
With kindness people had not asked for.
She called him.
Owen answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey.”
Celeste’s voice softened despite herself.
“Are you at the garage?”
“Yes.”
“Ellie?”
“Upstairs.”
“Can I come by?”
Silence.
Then:
“That tone sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather tell you in person.”
Another pause.
“All right.”
When Celeste arrived, Owen was alone in the machine room.
Ellie had gone to a neighbor’s house.
Good.
Maybe not good.
Nothing felt good.
Owen leaned against the workbench.