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She stopped the pacing and gazed around the room, eyes flicking over the perfectly filmy curtains she’d spent hours picking out, the perfectly pink sofa she loved to curl up on, the perfect parquet floors that had convinced her to buy this house over several others. Normally her little safe haven, her enclave of comfort. But it didn’t help today. Nothing helped. Maybe she’d made the wrong choice to put off looking for jobs after she graduated in June until after the baby was born and she’d established a routine with a nanny—she had far too much time to think about it all.
She couldn’t go for a run. She couldn’t have any wine. She couldn’t vape. All she could do was read, that was all she’d been doing lately, and her eyes were about to fall out of her head. She’d called everyone she knew—sorority sisters, people she’d known in graduate school—they were all sympathetic and took time to listen, but they all had lives of their own and their concern for her only extended so far.
She started pacing again—waddling, really—and shook her head. Because, really, what did ittake? He knew her friend,another pregnant woman, had been kidnapped and murdered. Why didn’t that worry him? If he wasn’t concerned for her safety, shouldn’t he at least be concerned about her state of mind? He’d seen the doctor’s letter that warned she shouldn’t have any stress. And now with the strange flutterings in her abdomen, he should be seriously beside himself.
She lowered herself onto the couch, trying to find a comfortable position with the help of a stack of pillows. She flicked on a true-crime show—so appropriate—and watched the cops take the killer into custody. She forced herself to follow how they’d caught him, something about a chestnut, but it made no sense. But it was ending and another one was starting, so maybe she’d be able to lose herself in that. She paused it, then went to grab a cold soda.
She pulled a glass out of the cabinet, added some ice from the maker, then grimaced as she pulled out a can of Diet Sprite. Another restriction—no caffeine. She’dabsolutely killfor a Diet Coke, but Julia had insisted she’d stunt the baby’s growth if she hadeven one milligramof caffeine. She poured the Sprite over the ice, and took a long gulp.
Time was the real problem. She had a month at most before the baby was born. It was going too slowly and too fast at the same time.
With a sigh, she pushed herself away from the counter and headed back toward the couch. She’d be fine, everything would be fine, she just needed to stop obsessing about it. Maybe she should call Sienna to distract herself. Sienna wouldn’t want to talk to her again so soon, but given Madison’s murder she’d at least listen—
Chelsea’s foot hit a fallen ice cube and slipped out from under her. She went down hard, landing on her tush and her empty hand as the soda in her glass splayed a wave across the room. Stunned, she sat still and took inventory, checking for pain, testing out each of her limbs. Nothing broken, and everything could hold her weight. Her son kicked inside her abdomen, and she closed her eyes in relief. A smile spread over her face.
Moving slowly and carefully, she got up and crossed into the living room to her phone. She picked it up and tapped David’s contact.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Naomie’s normally cozy banana-yellow walls felt close and tight, and drew in further as she struggled with the discovery that someone had rifled through her office.
The first admin had arrived shortly after Naomie slammed the file cabinet closed. Seeing Naomie in her office, she instantly appeared with a problem to be solved, and although Naomie dealt with it as quickly as possible, two more landed on her desk before she’d finished the first. The day had continued like that, without time for a breath, the specter of her rifled filing cabinet refusing to let her mind completely focus on anything else.
The first respite came at four, when it was technically time for her to leave for the day. She closed her office door and blinds to give the impression she was gone, then tapped open the pictures on her camera. Her pulse sped, erasing the fatigue left by the nonstop day.
She studied the first file, then compared it with the rest. Nothing popped out in it or in the second, and she began to hope Madison’s was the only application that had been tampered with. But then, in Ellie Fields’s file, she found a grant application that had been filled out online and printed out. She scrolled to her pictures of the payment log. Ellie Fields had received a thousand-dollar grant two months before the date on her application—then a second grant just two weeks ago.
Cold dread spread down her arms and legs. She grabbed her bottle of water and chugged half of it down, hoping it would ease the queasy feeling in her stomach. When she returned to the client files she found a third woman with a typed application who’d also received a duplicate grant payment. She sent the relevant pictures to the printer and hurried to pick them up before someone could intercept them, then once safely back in her office fired a text off to Sandra.I need to see you in my office ASAP.
Sandra appeared within moments and closed the door behind her without being asked. Naomie handed her the printouts and explained what they were. “Despite double payments noted in the log, the original applications are no longer in the files. I need you to check to see if Janelle has copies.”
Sandra reappeared with a gentle knock five minutes later and silently handed Naomie the backup copies. As Naomie sorted them by name, she said a little prayer. If Madison’s signatures matched but nobody else’s did, that would strongly suggest Madison was responsible for all the fraudulent payments—of course she’d be able to match her own signature, but not anybody else’s. But if all the signatures matched, they had a talented forger in their midst. And if so, Sandra might be right—Madison’s death and the missing monies might be related. Naomie took a deep breath, then pulled the pairs of applications together one at a time.
All the signatures matched.
Sandra’s expression showed she understood the significance, too. In a voice that sounded small and far away, Naomie asked her to keep what they’d discovered to herself, and told her to go home.
Alone again, she stared at the Renoir print on her wall, sorting out the implications and narrowing down the possibilities. Whoever had done this had gained access to her office, and Rhea’s. Both offices were locked after hours, but during the day the atmosphere at Triple-B was relaxed and friendly enough that they both left their doors unlocked—often wide open—whenever they stepped out for coffee, printouts, or bathroom breaks. Anybody with enough nerve could slip in and go through whatever they wanted.
Whoever it was needed to know the procedures for grant applications, and for picking up the checks. But that also wasn’t much help. The application instructions and form were online, and just about everybody knew the procedures for receiving payments from Triple-B funds. Even if they never received grant payments, most employees were reimbursed for expenses during the course of their responsibilities.
One thing was certain—she’d made bad choices. She and Rhea tried to put as much of their funding into helping expectant mothers as possible, and as a result had eschewed expensive business software or other systems that would have added security. That would have to change; they’d also need to put security cameras inside the building rather than only at the two entrances. She dropped her head into her hands—that would transform the environment she’d worked so hard to create, replacing one of trust and camaraderie with mistrust and micromanagement.
But the logistics were just a distraction from the more important question: had someone killed Madison to keep Naomie from discovering what was really happening with these forged applications? And if so, what on earth could she do about that?
After several minutes considering her options, she picked up the phone.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
“She called again.” Sophie sounded like she was talking through gritted teeth.
Jo reluctantly pulled her attention away from the monitor where she was doing her background check on Travis Hartley to Sophie’s call. “Chelsea? Why?”
“She said she fell. She ‘just wanted to let him know’ she was driving herself to the ER to make sure the baby was fine. Of course David told her it was dangerous for her to drive herself and went over to drive her, just the way she knew he would.”
Jo cleared her throat. “Just asking to consider all sides—is it possible the fall’s legit?”
“Of course it’spossible. Each and every thing she calls about ispossible.It’s the confluence of all of them together that’s highly improbable.” Sophie’s pitch edged upwards.
