Chapter 6 - The Woman Who Hated Me Asked Me to Come
Twenty-three years.
That number mattered.
Ronan knew it immediately.
His father had died twenty-three years earlier.
Officially, Thomas Blackwood suffered a heart attack at age fifty-two.
His death forced twenty-one-year-old Ronan to leave college and assume responsibility for a struggling family logistics company while also helping raise teenage Maeve.
Ronan rarely spoke about those years.
Malcolm did.
“Thomas Blackwood had enemies,” he told me.
We were sitting in the library while investigators questioned Daniel.
“He was not always an easy man.”
“Business enemies?”
“Family too.”
One name surfaced repeatedly.
Patrick Blackwood.
Ronan’s uncle.
One of the three trustees.
The same man whose authorization was required for the offshore transfer.
I remembered the financial document.
Twenty-two million dollars.
Two-factor confirmation.
Maybe the transfer had never been an obstacle.
Maybe Patrick was supposed to approve it.
Ronan refused to believe that without proof.
“My uncle helped keep the company alive after my father died.”
Maeve folded her arms.
“He also fought Dad constantly.”
“That doesn’t make him a criminal.”
“No,” I said. “But numbers might.”
Ronan looked at me.
“Then follow them.”
So I did.
Patrick Blackwood had received consulting payments from Blackwood Global for decades.
Most were legitimate.
A few were not.
I found a dormant trust established twenty-two years earlier.
Then another account.
Then property in Switzerland.
Then an investment vehicle in Luxembourg.
Money moved through them slowly.
Patiently.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing that looked like theft until you compared it with legacy Blackwood corporate transactions.
The pattern stretched back more than fifteen years.
“This isn’t a quick fraud,” I said.
Ronan stared at the spreadsheets.
“No.”
“Someone has been removing money from the company for years.”
Maeve sat down.
“How much?”
“Minimum estimate?”
I swallowed.
“Forty-seven million.”
She cursed.
Ronan remained silent.
The older records were harder to trace.
But one payment from nine years earlier connected Patrick to Graham Pike.
Another linked Graham to Daniel.
Then came Vivien.
Four people.
One chain.
Daniel finally agreed to cooperate.
His confession arrived through federal investigators that evening.
Patrick recruited him twelve years earlier.
At first, Daniel only provided schedules and internal documents.
Then signatures.
Passwords.
Access.
The payments grew.
So did the demands.
Vivien entered the plan eighteen months earlier because Patrick needed someone inside Ronan’s personal life.
The marriage would create legal standing.
The fake medical records would create control.
The forged resolutions would create corporate authority.
And eventually Ronan would experience a “medical emergency.”
Daniel insisted he did not know whether that meant murder.
I did not believe him.
Neither did Ronan.
Patrick, meanwhile, had no idea Daniel was cooperating.
That gave us an advantage.
Ronan invited his uncle to dinner.
Patrick arrived at seven exactly.
Silver-haired.
Elegant.
Warm smile.
He hugged Maeve.
He hugged Ronan.
Then he saw me.
“Ivy Mercer.”
I stiffened.
He knew my name.
“Your photograph is everywhere.”
“Unfortunately.”
He smiled.
“I’m sorry about what happened.”
There was something in his tone I disliked.
Not sympathy.
Evaluation.
Like he was measuring me.
Dinner was served in the small family dining room.
Only five people attended.
Ronan.
Maeve.
Patrick.
Malcolm.
Me.
Patrick noticed immediately.
“Staff at the table now?”
I set down my fork.
Ronan answered.
“Ivy is working with the financial team.”
Patrick smiled.
“Ah. The famous maid becomes an accountant.”
“I was an accountant before I was a maid.”
“Of course.”
Two words.
Pure condescension.
I had heard that tone my entire adult life from people who believed job titles measured intelligence.
I smiled.
“Would you like to hear what I found?”
Ronan hid a smile.
Patrick did not.
“Certainly.”
“Forty-seven million dollars.”
His fork stopped.
Only for half a second.
“What about it?”
“Missing.”
“That sounds concerning.”
“It is.”
“From the company?”
“Mostly.”
Ronan watched his uncle carefully.
Patrick drank wine.
“You should involve auditors.”
“We have.”
“Police?”
“Yes.”
Patrick nodded.
“Good.”
He was excellent.
Better than Vivien.
Better than Daniel.
No visible panic.
No anger.
No unnecessary questions.
Then I lied.
“We traced most of it to Singapore.”
Patrick looked at me.
“The actual money went through Luxembourg.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
He realized instantly.
Maeve put down her glass.
Ronan’s face changed.
Patrick slowly leaned back.
“That was clever.”
My heart hammered.
“Thank you.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“How?”
“You knew Singapore was wrong.”
Patrick laughed softly.
Then looked at Ronan.
“She’s dangerous.”
“No,” Ronan said. “She pays attention.”
Patrick’s expression turned almost sad.
“You always did surround yourself with strays.”
Maeve stood.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Sit down, Maeve.”
“No.”
Ronan remained seated.
“Why?”
Patrick looked at him.
“You really want the sentimental version?”
“I want the truth.”
“The truth is your father stole my life.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed.
“We inherited equally.”
“On paper.”
Patrick leaned forward.
“Your father controlled the company. He controlled the board. He controlled our father. Every time I built something, Thomas took credit. Every time I made money, he called it reckless. When our father died, Thomas inherited authority I should have had.”
“So you stole from him?”
“I corrected the balance.”
“For twenty-three years?”
Patrick smiled.
“I was patient.”
Maeve stared at him.
“Did you kill Dad?”
The question landed like a gunshot.
Patrick looked at her.
Then at Ronan.
“No.”
Maeve exhaled.
“But I knew his heart was failing.”
Her face drained.
“What?”
“He told me.”
Ronan stood.
Patrick continued.
“He needed surgery. He was afraid investors would panic if the board learned how serious it was.”
“And you said nothing?”
“He asked me to keep it private.”
“You could have helped him.”
“I could have.”
Ronan crossed the room.
For one terrifying second, I thought he might hit him.
He stopped inches away.
Patrick looked almost pleased.
“Go ahead.”
Ronan’s fists tightened.
Then relaxed.
“No.”
Patrick seemed disappointed.
“You know why?” Ronan asked.
Patrick said nothing.
“Because you’ve spent twenty-three years wanting proof that we’re the same.”
Ronan stepped back.
“We aren’t.”
Federal agents entered through both doors.
Patrick’s confidence finally cracked.
He turned toward me.
“You set this up.”
“No.”
I looked at Ronan.
“He did.”
Agents placed Patrick under arrest.
Fraud.
Conspiracy.
Forgery.
Money laundering.
Potential charges related to plans for Ronan’s incapacitation.
As they walked him toward the hallway, Patrick stopped beside me.
“You think Blackwoods reward loyalty?”
I held his gaze.
“I didn’t do this for a reward.”
“That’s what everyone says before they learn what power costs.”
He left.
For several seconds nobody moved.
Then Maeve hugged Ronan.
He stood stiffly.
Eventually his arms closed around her.
I looked away.
Some moments do not need witnesses.
By midnight, Vivien was also taken into custody for questioning.
Graham Pike surrendered the following morning.
The conspiracy was collapsing.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt strangely empty.
Because the crisis that had transformed me from invisible maid to key witness was ending.
And I had no idea what happened next.
My consulting contract ended Sunday.
On Saturday afternoon, I found Ronan in the conservatory.
The same fountain where Vivien used to meet Graham.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
He looked up.
“Why?”
“My contract ends.”
“Extend it.”
“For what?”
“Blackwood Global needs someone to help rebuild internal financial controls.”
I stared at him.
“You already have accountants.”
“I have accountants who missed forty-seven million dollars.”
“That’s an excellent point.”
He smiled.
A real smile.
It changed his entire face.
Then I ruined the moment.
“I don’t want a job because you feel sorry for me.”
The smile disappeared.
“I don’t.”
“Because I protected Oliver.”
“No.”
“Because Vivien hurt me.”
“No.”
“Because I helped expose Patrick?”
“No.”
I folded my arms.
“Then why?”
He stepped closer.
“Because you noticed what everyone else ignored.”
I could not answer.
“And because,” he added, “you are the only person in my house who has argued with me six times in one week.”
“Seven.”
“There. That.”
I laughed.
I had not expected to.
Ronan looked almost surprised by the sound.
Then Malcolm entered quickly.
His face erased the moment.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“There’s been an incident at the courthouse.”
My stomach tightened.
“Vivien?”
Malcolm nodded.
“She collapsed before her hearing.”
Ronan’s face hardened.
“What happened?”
“Unknown.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
Malcolm hesitated.
“But before she lost consciousness, she gave an officer a message.”
“For whom?”
Malcolm looked directly at me.
May you like
“For Ivy.”
---
