of that room.”
“Why?”
She hesitated, and in that hesitation lived twenty years of trying to rescue him without insulting him. Caleb had joined Hale Strategic because Victor promised him a future. A corner office. Equity. Respect. Victor handed out hope the way casinos handed out free drinks.
“Because they’re about to receive the evidence package,” Naomi said.
Silence.
Then Caleb’s voice dropped further. “Evidence of what?”
Naomi could still see him at nine years old, sleeping on the carpet outside their mother’s bedroom because he thought if he stayed close enough, cancer would be afraid to enter. She could see him at seventeen, standing in front of Naomi after Victor threw a glass against the kitchen sink, saying, “He didn’t mean it like that.” She could see him last Christmas, smiling too hard while Victor told everyone Caleb was finally becoming useful.
“Vendor fraud,” she said. “False billing. Unauthorized access to restricted files. And a Meridian strategy document that appeared in a competitor briefing three days after Hale received it.”
Caleb did not breathe audibly.
“No,” he said at last. “That can’t be right.”
“I wish it weren’t.”
“Dad wouldn’t leak a client file.”
Naomi watched the restaurant door. “Maybe he didn’t personally. Maybe someone under him did. The investigation will decide that. But Hale Strategic billed Northstar for analysts who were not assigned, consultants who do not appear to exist, and a security review that was copied from another client. His signature is on the certification.”
In the background, Victor’s voice cut through, sharp and furious.
“Give me that.”
Caleb said, “Ruth just opened something.”
“Leave now.”
“Naomi—”
“Now.”
The line muffled. Caleb must have lowered the phone. Naomi heard a woman say, very clearly, “Victor, why is your daughter’s name on Northstar’s termination authority?”
Then the call ended.
Naomi sat very still.
Inside Harbor Glass, the private room had become a stage with the curtains ripped down. She could see shapes through the rain-streaked glass: people standing, heads close together, Victor rigid at the center. Ruth Voss had a tablet in one hand. Miles Carrow was no longer smiling.
Naomi’s phone buzzed again.
This time it was a text from Daniel.
Access revoked. Evidence packet delivered. Ruth Voss acknowledged receipt.
A second message followed.
Victor Hale is calling my office repeatedly.
Naomi typed back.
Do not engage except through counsel.
She had barely sent it when the restaurant doors burst open.
Victor stepped into the rain without his coat.
For the first time that evening, he did not look amused. His hair, silver at the temples and perfectly cut, darkened under the downpour. His phone was clenched in one hand. His other hand formed a fist, then opened, then formed again. He scanned the curb with predatory certainty and found her car.
“Adrian,” Naomi said.
The driver looked up through the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Keep the doors locked.”
Victor crossed the sidewalk fast, polished shoes splashing through gutter water. He reached her window and struck the glass with his palm.
The sound cracked through the car.
“Open the door,” he said.
Naomi lowered the window three inches.
Cold rain blew in, carrying the smell of the harbor.
“That was theatrical,” she said.
Victor leaned close. His face filled the gap, wet and pale with rage. “Who
