Chapter 9 - The Letter in the Penthouse
The penthouse had been closed since Thomas Vale's funeral. Elena took the private elevator to the top floor just before dawn, carrying the flash drive in her coat pocket. The windows faced the river, and the city beyond them looked pale and distant in the early light.
Her father's books remained on the shelves, arranged by subject and height. A pair of reading glasses lay beside a cold fireplace. On the desk sat a framed photograph of Elena at seventeen, laughing beside her mother at the hotel's first Harbor House fundraiser.
If you are reading this, the estate has finally transferred, and I have failed to fix what I let happen here. I believed that giving people authority meant giving them trust. I was wrong. Trust has to be earned, and silence is not loyalty.
The letter said Thomas had discovered missing funds and forged vendor contracts months before his final illness. He had planned to confront the board, but someone warned him that a public fight could force the hotel into bankruptcy and cost hundreds of workers their jobs. He had delayed, hoping to gather enough proof to protect the staff. By the time he understood how deep the scheme ran, he was too sick to continue.
The brass key opened a narrow cabinet beneath the desk. Inside was a portable recorder and a list of backup locations. One line was underlined: ARCHIVE MIRROR - B2 STORAGE.
“Victoria, you cannot keep using the charity account. I have seen the transfers.”
“You should be resting, Mr. Vale. You're confused.”
The recording crackled, then stopped. The penthouse door stood open. A man in a maintenance jacket was inside, holding a small metal can. He stared at the recorder in her hand.
May you like
“Give me that,” he said.
Then he reached for the laptop's power cable.
