Chapter 2 - The Photograph That Should Not Exist
Khloe had spent eighteen months investigating Richard Croft.
She had memorized his shell companies, his offshore accounts, his private aircraft, his secret meetings, and the names of executives who smiled beside him while quietly helping move millions of dollars across borders.
She thought she knew every secret he had.
She was wrong.
The photograph was older than she was.
That alone made no sense.
Khloe had been told her mother died before she could remember her.
A fire.
A small apartment in Queens.
One body recovered.
Case closed.
That story had been repeated by her aunt, the legal guardian who raised her, and every official record Khloe had ever seen.
Now her mother's face was sitting on a restaurant table beneath the soft light of the Wellington Room.
Alive.
Smiling.
Holding a baby.
Khloe.
She picked up the photograph.
“Where did you get this?”
Arthur's expression was serious.
“Croft's private archive.”
“Why was it there?”
“We don't know.”
“You said you found it in his archive.”
“Yes.”
“Then he knew who I was.”
Arthur didn't answer.
Khloe's mind began moving faster.
Richard had not hired her.
Arthur had hired Croll Associates.
But Richard had known Croll was investigating him.
Had he known Khloe's identity?
Had he deliberately let her get close?
The federal investigators were still securing documents when Sarah approached.
“Khloe.”
Khloe looked at her.
“We need to close the restaurant for the evening.”
“Do it.”
Sarah hesitated.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Khloe had spent years learning how to control her expression.
Now she couldn't.
Arthur stepped closer.
“Come with me.”
They entered a private office behind the wine cellar.
Arthur closed the door.
“I need to tell you something.”
“You knew about my mother?”
“No.”
“Arthur.”
“I knew Richard had a file on Margaret Jenkins.”
Khloe froze.
“You knew before tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know what was true.”
“That's convenient.”
Arthur accepted the accusation.
“You're right.”
Khloe stared at him.
“What was in the file?”
“Not enough to confirm anything.”
“What did it say?”
“Your mother was an accountant.”
Khloe's pulse jumped.
“So am I.”
“She worked for a company connected to Croft Capital before Croft Capital existed.”
“What company?”
“Mercer Holdings.”
Khloe remembered the name.
Old Manhattan real estate.
Almost forgotten.
Arthur continued.
“Your mother discovered money was being diverted from pension funds.”
“By Richard?”
“Not initially.”
“Who?”
Arthur hesitated.
“A man named Julian Cross.”
Khloe frowned.
She knew the name.
Everyone in corporate intelligence knew it.
Julian Cross had been a legendary dealmaker in the 1990s.
He had disappeared from public life almost twenty years ago.
“He trained Richard,” Arthur said.
Khloe sat down.
“And my mother?”
“Your mother investigated him.”
“Then disappeared.”
“Yes.”
Khloe looked at the photograph again.
“The baby in this picture is me.”
Arthur nodded.
“And Richard had it.”
“Which means…”
“He may have known your mother.”
Khloe closed her eyes.
A thousand pieces shifted.
The apartment fire.
The missing records.
The unexplained death certificate.
Her aunt's refusal to discuss her childhood.
And now Richard's hidden photograph.
Someone had erased her mother's existence.
Someone powerful.
Someone with access to official records.
Khloe stood.
“I need the original case file.”
Arthur picked up his phone.
“I'll have Croll pull it.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“I want to go myself.”
“You don't need to.”
“Yes, I do.”
Before Arthur could object, Caroline walked into the room.
Her face was pale.
“Arthur.”
“What?”
“We found something.”
She handed him a folder.
“Richard's assistant tried to destroy this.”
Arthur opened it.
Inside was a list of names.
Dozens.
Politicians.
Judges.
Bankers.
Executives.
And near the bottom:
MARGARET JENKINS — REMOVE.
Khloe stared.
Beside her mother's name was a date.
The date of the apartment fire.
“This wasn't an accident,” Khloe whispered.
Caroline looked at her.
“I'm sorry.”
Khloe shook her head.
“No.”
She pointed to the list.
“Who's number one?”
Arthur flipped the page.
The first name was Julian Cross.
The second was Richard Croft.
The third was someone Khloe had never heard of.
Eleanor Voss.
Arthur's face hardened.
“That's impossible.”
“Who is Eleanor Voss?”
“She owns the Wellington Room.”
Khloe went still.
“The restaurant?”
Arthur nodded.
“She also owns several private investment funds.”
Khloe looked toward the dining room.
“She knew Richard.”
“Apparently.”
Caroline spoke softly.
“This may explain why Richard wanted tonight's dinner here.”
Khloe's mind raced.
It wasn't just a restaurant.
It was neutral territory.
Private.
Secluded.
Controlled.
Richard had expected to control everything.
Including the witnesses.
Khloe looked toward the door.
“Where is Eleanor?”
Sarah hurried into the office.
“I just saw her leave.”
“Where?”
“Through the private exit.”
Khloe immediately followed.
She reached the alley.
Eleanor's car was disappearing into the night.
Khloe stood in the freezing wind.
Her mother had supposedly died twenty-eight years ago.
Richard had secretly kept a photograph of her.
And the owner of the restaurant had just fled after federal agents entered.
Arthur joined her.
“We'll find her.”
Khloe looked at the taillights.
“No.”
“What?”
“I think she wants us to.”
Arthur frowned.
“Why?”
Khloe held up the photograph.
“Because someone wrote a message on the back.”
Arthur turned it over.
There was handwriting beneath the date.
Ask the girl what her mother hid under the floor.
Khloe stared.
“What floor?”
Then she remembered.
Her childhood home.
The apartment that had supposedly burned down.
The floor.
“The old apartment,” she whispered.
Arthur called Croll.
“Find the property records.”
Within minutes, the answer came.
The building still existed.
Renovated.
Standing.
Not burned down.
Khloe's world tilted.
“The fire story was fake.”
Arthur looked at her.
“Then where did your mother disappear?”
May you like
Khloe looked toward Manhattan.
“I think we're about to find out.”
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