“I knew him,” he said.
The words hung in the air.
I stared. “What?”
“2005. I was investigating a Ponzi scheme targeting small consulting firms. My supervisor wanted to drop it. Not high-profile enough. Thomas came forward. Testified. Gave us documentation—emails—everything we needed. He saved the case. He saved my career.”
My throat tightened. “I didn’t know.”
“He wouldn’t have told you,” David said. “That was Thomas. He didn’t do it for recognition.”
I closed my eyes.
Seven years after his death, Thomas was still protecting me.
“I owed him,” David said quietly. “Never got the chance to pay him back.”
I looked at him. “You can now.”
He nodded once. “That’s the plan.”
David slid a business card across the table. His handwriting: Morrison Estate. 2:00 p.m. Friday. I need sixteen hours. Meet me tomorrow at your house. Bring your lawyer.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Three things,” he said. “Each one worse than the last.”
“Tell me.”
“Not yet.” He stood, dropped a twenty on the table. “Go home. Try to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be long.”
I didn’t sleep.
I drove home in a daze. The house was dark. I climbed the stairs and lay on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling.
Three things. Each one worse than the last.
What had Derek done?
The hours crawled. Midnight. One. Two.
At some point, I closed my eyes.
My phone buzzed.
Dawn was breaking. 5:47 a.m. A text from an unknown number.
David, found the shell company. Cascade Holdings LLC. Offshore accounts. This is bigger than you think.
I sat up, heart pounding.
Cascade Holdings—the name Derek had said through the wall.
David had found it in less than nine hours.
I stared at the message.
Bigger than I thought.
How much worse could it get?
David Reyes arrived at 2:00 sharp, carrying a leather briefcase. Sarah Goldman was already in my study. George Matthews sat beside her—sixty-five, gray-haired, Thomas’s college roommate, our senior vice president for twenty years.
David set the briefcase on my desk and pulled out three folders—red, blue, black.
“Start with the red one,” he said.
I opened it.
Folder one—red.
A photograph.
Derek Pierce shaking hands with a man in a dark suit. Manhattan street corner. April 24th.
“Dmitri Vulov,” David said. “Enforcer for Victor Klov. Russian organized crime operating out of New York and New Jersey.”
I looked up. “What does Derek owe him?”
“Two point five million.”
The room went quiet.
“Derek’s been gambling since 2020,” David said. “Illegal poker games. Sports betting. He’s in deep.”
He pulled out a bank statement.
“March 15, 2024. A wire transfer. Three hundred thousand from Derek’s personal account to an offshore entity in the Cayman Islands.”
“That was a payment,” David said. “Not enough to clear the debt—just enough to buy time.”
He laid out two more photographs—Derek and Dmitri. Different locations. May 8th. June 3rd.
Then a text message screenshot. Dmitri’s number.
June 30 deadline. No extensions.
“If Derek doesn’t pay by June 30th,” David said quietly, “he won’t see July.”
I stared at the photos. My future son-in-law shaking hands with a man who would end him.
“So he’s stealing my company,” I said. “To pay off the mob.”
David nodded.
“Folder two,” he said, tapping the blue one. “Cascade Holdings LLC.”
He slid documents across the desk.
“Formed March 10th, 2024. Delaware registration. Two partners: Derek Pierce and Rachel Morrison.”
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