Chapter 6: Carol Marsh
The name hit me like cold water.
"How did you get this number?" I asked.
"Someone at the wedding posted about what happened.
Your name was in the comments — someone who knows you tagged you." A pause.
"I've had a Google alert on Preston Hale's name for two years.
The post came up twenty minutes ago."
I stood and walked a few steps down the corridor, lowering my voice.
"Diane Collier told me about you."
Silence on the line.
Then: "Diane is there?"
"She stepped forward when the footage played.
She told the room about the Hartwell Gallery incident.
The catering boy."
Another pause, longer.
"I didn't know she knew about that."
"She did.
She's here now, with my daughter." I leaned against the wall.
"Carol, I need to know what you found.
In the accounts."
"I signed an NDA."
"I know."
"If I break it, his lawyers will—"
"I know that too." I kept my voice steady.
"I'm not asking you to file anything or go on record tonight.
I'm asking you to tell me what direction to look in.
That's all.
What I do with it is my problem."
The silence stretched long enough that I thought she might hang up.
"The irregularities were in the subsidiary accounts," she said finally.
"Hale Property Group runs eleven subsidiaries.
Three of them exist only on paper.
Money flows into them from the main company and disappears.
No corresponding assets, no staff, no physical address."
"Shell companies."
"Yes.
But the amounts were large enough that I thought — I still think — there's something more than standard tax avoidance happening.
The pattern looked like money being parked somewhere before moving again."
"Moved where?"
"I don't know.
I didn't get far enough before the suit was filed." Her voice tightened.
"I had a folder.
Physical copies of everything I'd found, plus my own notes.
When I signed the NDA, I had to surrender all of it."
"All of it?"
A beat.
"I made one copy," she said.
"Before I surrendered the originals.
I kept it because I was frightened, and because I thought — someday — it might matter."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"Where is it?"
"In a storage unit in Guildford.
I haven't touched it in two years." She exhaled.
"I've been too afraid."
"Carol.
Listen to me.
What Preston did today — in a room full of witnesses, on camera — he h*t an eight-year-old girl and tried to frame her for theft.
The police are on their way right now.
Diane Collier is prepared to give a statement.
There are forty guests who watched the footage play." I paused.
"He's not untouchable.
He just made everyone believe he was."
The line was quiet.
"My daughter is seven," Carol said.
"I've spent two years being afraid of what he'd do if I ever—"
"I know." I waited.
"I know."
Another long silence.
Then: "The storage unit is number forty-seven.
The code is the year my daughter was born — 2017."
I memorized it without writing it down.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Her voice dropped.
"He has people everywhere.
If he finds out I talked to you—"
"He won't find out from me."
I ended the call and stood still in the corridor for a moment.
The sounds from the ballroom had changed — lower, more official.
The police had arrived.
I walked back to Diane.
She looked at my face.
"Who was it?"
"Carol Marsh."
Diane stared at me.
"She kept a copy," I said.
Diane's hand moved to her mouth.
Sophie stirred against her shoulder, mumbled something, and settled back to sleep.
"If that copy shows what I think it shows," Diane said slowly, "this isn't just about today.
This is—"
"I know what it is." I picked up my bag.
"First things first.
I need to give a statement.
You need to give a statement.
And then I need to make a phone call to someone I trust."
"Who?"
"A financial crimes investigator I worked with two years ago." I looked toward the ballroom door.
"She owes me a favor."
Through the door's narrow window, I could see Preston Hale standing with the two police officers, composed and cooperative, already performing the version of himself that had always worked before.
He didn't know about Carol's copy.
He didn't know about my phone call.
He didn't know that the one thing he had never planned for was an eight-year-old girl in a yellow dress whose mother happened to know exactly what security cameras recorded and how long the footage was kept.
He was still smiling.
May you like
That was fine.
He wouldn't be for long.
