Chapter 3 - The Letter in the Backpack
That evening, Andre came home carrying takeout and pretending everything was normal.
Rachel let him.
For exactly eleven minutes.
They ate at the kitchen island.
Jordan talked about school only when directly asked. Andre told a story about a subcontractor ordering the wrong tile. Rachel nodded in the appropriate places.
The performance ended after Jordan went upstairs.
Rachel placed her fork down.
“Seventy-four thousand dollars.”
Andre stopped chewing.
She watched the blood drain from his face.
“What?”
“Don’t insult me.”
Andre lowered his food.
Rachel turned her laptop around.
The bank statement glowed between them.
Transfer: $74,000.
Recipient: Andre’s company.
Date: eleven weeks earlier.
Andre closed his eyes.
Rachel spoke softly.
“You told me our savings account was down because of taxes and the roof.”
“It was.”
“Not seventy-four thousand dollars.”
“I was going to replace it.”
“With what?”
Andre looked toward the staircase.
“Keep your voice down.”
“My voice is not the problem.”
He stood.
Rachel stood too.
“That money was ours.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you move it without asking me?”
Andre paced once toward the sink.
“We had a cash shortage.”
“You said projects paid late.”
“They did.”
“And?”
Andre’s jaw tightened.
“And Calvin told me the company would miss payroll.”
Rachel stared at him.
Calvin.
Andre’s younger brother.
The company’s financial director.
The man Andre had defended for fifteen years no matter what mistake he made.
“You moved seventy-four thousand dollars because Calvin told you to?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“How was it?”
Andre turned.
“My father built that company from nothing. Thirty-two employees depend on it. Some of them have been with us since Jordan was in elementary school.”
“And your wife depends on you not secretly emptying our savings.”
“I didn’t empty it.”
Rachel laughed in disbelief.
“You took more than half.”
“I was buying time.”
“For what?”
Andre said nothing.
Rachel’s anger weakened.
Fear replaced it.
“Andre.”
He sat down.
“The company owes money.”
“How much?”
“Depends what you count.”
Her face hardened again.
“That is the worst possible answer.”
Andre stared at his hands.
“There’s a line of credit.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred eighty-six thousand.”
Rachel stopped breathing.
Upstairs, Jordan sat on the top stair.
He had come down for water.
He heard every word.
His fingers tightened around the railing.
Rachel whispered, “Are we personally liable?”
Andre took too long to respond.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s a personal guarantee, not a mortgage.”
“You guaranteed nearly three hundred thousand dollars?”
“It was renewed every year. My father started it.”
“Your father has been dead four years.”
“I know.”
“Then you renewed it.”
Andre looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
Rachel stepped away.
“Without telling me.”
“The company was stable when I signed.”
“Apparently it wasn’t.”
Andre stood.
“That is what I’m trying to figure out.”
Rachel turned back.
“What does that mean?”
“Money is missing.”
The room became still.
“Missing?”
“Not literally missing. The books don’t make sense.”
“And Calvin handles the books.”
Andre’s expression changed immediately.
“Don’t.”
Rachel stared.
“I said his name.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Protect him before anyone even accuses him.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And I’m your wife.”
The sentence landed between them.
Upstairs, Jordan retreated silently.
He entered his bedroom and closed the door.
Then he pulled the default notice from his backpack.
Now he understood.
His father had been lying.
Not about loving them.
Not about wanting to protect them.
But about danger.
Jordan opened a drawer and slid the document beneath a stack of old notebooks.
His hand brushed something else.
A small brass key.
He frowned.
He had found it clipped to the default notice when he picked the envelope off the office floor.
He had removed it because he thought it belonged to his father’s desk.
One side was stamped with a number.
W-17.
Jordan had forgotten about it.
Downstairs, Rachel was saying, “How long have you known money was missing?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I needed facts first.”
“No. You needed control.”
Andre flinched.
Rachel’s eyes filled.
“You don’t trust me enough to let me be scared beside you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is finding out our future is tied to a debt I didn’t know existed.”
Andre looked at the bank statement.
“I was trying to save the company.”
“Andre, listen to yourself.”
He did.
For once, he heard how it sounded.
Rachel took her laptop.
“I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
He looked up.
“Rachel.”
“I need space.”
She walked away.
Andre remained alone in the kitchen.
Upstairs, Jordan turned the brass key between his fingers.
W-17.
Warehouse 17?
He remembered hearing Andre talk about the company warehouse on Westfield Industrial Road.
Jordan searched the company name and address from his school-issued laptop.
A photograph appeared.
At the rear of the building were numbered storage units.
W-14.
W-15.
W-16.
W-17.
Jordan stared at the key.
His father was hiding a financial crisis.
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His mother was hiding bank statements.
And somehow, without meaning to, Jordan had ended up holding a key to something neither of them knew he had.
