Chapter 3 - The Secret Account Under Genevieve’s Name
Martha survived.
Barely.
She was taken to a private medical facility under a false name before the Sterling security team could ask questions.
Dominic sat beside Genevieve in the back of the Maybach.
The flash drive rested between them.
Neither touched it.
“What’s on it?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You have any reason to believe Martha?”
“Yes.”
“What reason?”
Genevieve looked at the window.
“Because she was the only person in the Sterling organization who ever sent me a birthday card after my mother died.”
Dominic watched her.
“That’s your evidence?”
“No.”
She finally looked at him.
“My evidence is that she was terrified.”
The Maybach passed beneath Manhattan lights.
Dominic said nothing.
He had spent years learning that fear came in degrees.
Some people feared dying.
Others feared prison.
Some feared losing money.
But the most dangerous fear was losing the story that kept your life intact.
Richard Sterling had spent years protecting one.
They arrived at Dominic’s private office.
The flash drive was opened on an isolated computer.
At first, nothing appeared.
Then a password screen.
Genevieve stared.
“What’s wrong?”
She typed.
Nothing.
Another combination.
Nothing.
Dominic watched her think.
Then she whispered:
“Beatrice’s birthday.”
The screen unlocked.
Hundreds of files appeared.
Bank transfers.
Trust accounts.
Offshore structures.
Internal emails.
And one folder titled GC_FINAL.
Genevieve clicked it.
Inside was a scanned document.
The heading:
MASTER LIABILITY TRANSFER — CROFT, GENEVIEVE.
She opened it.
Her name had been entered as the sole person responsible for all losses attributed to Sterling Enterprises.
But beneath the signature block was a second signature.
Richard Sterling.
Genevieve stared.
“He signed it.”
Dominic said nothing.
“He signed the document that sent me to prison.”
Another file.
A bank account.
Funds transferred from Sterling Enterprises.
Then to six shell corporations.
Then to a private account.
The account holder was not Richard Sterling.
It was Beatrice Anne Sterling.
Dominic looked at Genevieve.
She had stopped breathing.
“Your bride-to-be knew.”
“She wasn't my bride.”
“Your brother's bride.”
“Yes.”
Genevieve continued scrolling.
Payments to Judge Sullivan.
Payments to consultants.
Payments to a private investigator.
And one recurring transfer to a company registered in Delaware.
CROFT RESTORATION SERVICES.
“What is that?”
Genevieve opened it.
Her eyes widened.
“My father.”
Dominic leaned closer.
“Your father?”
“He died nine years ago.”
The account had been receiving monthly payments for three years.
Impossible.
Genevieve opened the legal documents.
Her father had apparently signed the company papers two months after his death.
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Then someone is using his identity.”
Genevieve shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at the signature.
“That isn't forged.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I watched him write it.”
She leaned back.
Then whispered the name.
“Elliot Croft.”
Dominic frowned.
“Your father.”
“Yes.”
“He's dead.”
“I know.”
But another file appeared.
A scanned passport.
A recent photograph.
Elliot Croft.
Alive.
Genevieve stared at the image of the man she had buried nine years earlier.
Dominic watched her face.
She didn't cry.
Instead she became completely still.
That frightened him more.
“We're finding him.”
“I don't know where he is.”
“We'll find him.”
She closed the laptop.
“Why are you helping me?”
Dominic looked at her.
“Because you were framed.”
“That's not enough.”
“It should be.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“People don't do things like this because they're noble.”
Dominic leaned forward.
“Then let's be honest.”
He lowered his voice.
“When I first saw you downstairs, I wanted to know why a woman who had once run a Fortune 500 company was keeping books for criminals.”
“And?”
“And I wanted to know why you looked at every door before sitting down.”
Genevieve looked away.
“You don't have to save me.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“I’m not saving you.”
She looked at him.
“I’m standing next to you while you burn down the people who hurt you.”
The words settled between them.
For a moment, Genevieve almost smiled.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
No one spoke.
A recording played.
Her father's voice.
“Gen, if you are hearing this, do not trust anyone named Sterling.”
The call ended.
Genevieve's hands started shaking.
Dominic took the phone gently.
The recording had been made years earlier.
But the background noise was clear.
A train.
Metal wheels.
Station announcements.
Genevieve listened again.
Then her expression changed.
“I know where he is.”
“Where?”
“Pennsylvania.”
“How?”
“My father hated trains.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow.
“So?”
“He only went near one place where you could hear a station in the background and still keep a secure location.”
“Where?”
“Blackridge.”
Dominic knew the name.
A private medical rehabilitation facility.
Owned through a charitable foundation.
Funded by Sterling Enterprises.
Genevieve laughed bitterly.
“He's been alive under their protection this entire time.”
The next morning, Dominic and Genevieve drove to Blackridge.
The facility was heavily secured.
The administrator greeted them nervously.
He denied knowing Elliot Croft.
Until Dominic placed the photo on the desk.
The administrator looked at it.
Then looked at Genevieve.
“He's here.”
Genevieve's breath caught.
“Take me to him.”
The administrator hesitated.
“Mr. Sterling owns part of the foundation.”
Dominic stepped forward.
“And I own the next ten minutes of your attention.”
The administrator immediately led them upstairs.
Elliot Croft sat by a window.
Older.
Thinner.
Gray-haired.
But alive.
Genevieve stopped at the doorway.
Her father looked up.
Their eyes met.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then he whispered:
“Gen?”
She crossed the room.
He stood with difficulty.
She reached him.
“Dad.”
He touched her face.
“You shouldn't have come.”
“I spent three years in prison because of you.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then tell me why.”
Before he could answer, the lights went out.
A gunshot shattered the window.
Dominic pulled Genevieve down.
A second shot struck the wall.
Security alarms erupted.
May you like
Elliot screamed:
“They found me.”
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