Chapter 9: The Woman Who Processed the Payments
Cecile Morrow was fifty-four, neat, unremarkable in the way that people who prefer not to be noticed often are.
She had a glass of water she hadn't touched and a phone she kept reaching for and stopping herself from reaching for.
When I walked into the drawing room, she stood up before I even crossed to her side of the room.
That told me everything.
"Let's speak privately," I said.
She followed me without argument.
I took her to the small sitting room off the main hall — not the east wing, not the dining room, somewhere neutral.
Gerald came with us.
Marco stood outside the door.
I didn't sit.
Neither did she.
"You processed payments to a private clinic in New Jersey," I said.
"Over a period of approximately fourteen months.
The payments were routed through a third-party consultancy to keep them off the primary account records.
You knew what they were for."
Her face had gone very still.
"I processed payments that were submitted through the standard approval chain," she said carefully.
"I didn't ask questions about every line item."
"Sofia Carter asked you a direct question about those payments.
You reported that conversation to Reeves within the hour."
A pause.
Very small.
Then: "I don't know anyone named Reeves."
"Ms.
Morrow." Gerald's voice was quiet and precise.
"We have a written statement from a second party who has already described your role in detail.
We have payment records recovered from this property tonight.
And we have a journal kept by Sofia Carter that names you specifically." He paused.
"This is not a conversation where denial is a productive strategy."
Her water glass was on the side table.
She looked at it.
"I want a lawyer," she said.
"You're not under arrest," I said.
"You can leave this room at any time.
But if you walk out of this house tonight without telling me what you know, the next conversation you have will be with the police, and you will have had no opportunity to explain your position first."
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then she sat down.
"I didn't know what the clinic was doing," she said.
"Not at first.
Reeves told me it was a private health monitoring service.
That the estate had a liability concern about a staff member — that she had access to sensitive financial information and there was a need to track whether she was in contact with outside parties."
"You believed that."
"I chose to believe it." Her voice was flat.
"It paid well.
The arrangement paid very well."
"How much?"
She named a figure.
Gerald wrote it down without expression.
"When did you understand it was more than monitoring?" I asked.
She looked at her hands.
"When Reeves called me the week before Sofia d*ed.
He told me the arrangement was entering a final phase.
He told me to make sure the next payment cleared before the end of the month and then to close the routing channel." She paused.
"He said the liability would be resolved."
The words sat in the room like something physical.
"And you cleared the payment," I said.
"Yes."
"Knowing what resolved meant."
She didn't answer.
Which was its own answer.
Gerald's pen moved steadily across the page.
"Sofia called you," I said.
"She asked about the payments.
You had worked alongside her.
You knew her.
You knew Rosie."
Cecile's chin dropped slightly.
"I knew," she said quietly.
"I knew and I said nothing and I cleared the payment." Her voice didn't break.
It just went very small.
"I have thought about that every day since she d*ed."
"Thinking about it didn't help Sofia," I said.
She said nothing.
"You're going to give Gerald a full written account.
Every instruction from Reeves.
Every payment.
Every date.
Every conversation." I looked at her steadily.
"And then you are going to give that account to the police."
Her head came up.
"You said this wasn't—"
"I said you weren't under arrest.
I didn't say there would be no consequences." I moved toward the door.
"Gerald will stay with you.
If you need water, Marco will get it."
I left her there with Gerald and the pen and the weight of what she had chosen not to do.
In the hallway, I stood still for a moment.
Sofia had been forty-one years old.
She had worked in this house for six years.
She had kept careful records because she was frightened, and she had called a near-stranger because she had no one else to call, and she had d*ed before anyone listened.
I had paid for her funeral and told myself I had done enough.
May you like
I hadn't done nearly enough.
But I was going to start now.
