Chapter 8: Thomas Whitfield Makes an Offer
Diana called on a Thursday morning, eleven days after the wedding.
I was home by then.
My daughter — I had named her Nora — was home too, cleared by the NICU team four days ahead of schedule.
She slept in a bassinet beside my bed and ate every two hours and regarded the ceiling with the same focused expression I apparently made when reading financial documents, according to Renata, who had flown back from London and was sleeping on my couch and refusing to leave.
"Whitfield's attorney made contact," Diana said.
I shifted Nora to my other arm.
"And?"
"He wants to meet.
Not with investigators.
With you."
"Why me?"
"His attorney says Whitfield has information about the original structure of the accounts that he believes is relevant to your personal situation.
He's framing it as a conversation between family friends."
"We are not family friends."
"I know.
But he's asking."
I looked at Nora.
She was asleep now, her face slack and perfect.
"What does he actually want?" I asked.
"My read?
He wants to know how much you know about his involvement specifically.
He knows Julian has been talking.
He wants to assess his exposure before he decides whether to cooperate or fight."
"He wants to use the meeting to gather information."
"Yes."
"Then I'll go," I said.
"And I'll let him."
Diana was quiet for a moment.
"Audrey, I want an observer in the room."
"Of course."
"And I want you wired."
"Obviously."
Another pause.
"You're not nervous about this."
"I've been sitting across from Thomas Whitfield at dinner tables for three years," I said.
"He's been performing the whole time.
So have I.
The only difference now is that we both know it."
The meeting was arranged for the following Monday at a neutral location — a conference room at a downtown law office, neutral ground, both attorneys present, Diana's observer in the corner.
Whitfield arrived looking like himself.
Seventy-one years old.
Silver hair.
Good suit.
The kind of man who had spent a lifetime being the most trusted person in every room.
He looked at me across the table and smiled.
"Audrey.
I'm so glad the baby is well."
"Thank you, Thomas."
"Terrible circumstances.
The whole night was—" He shook his head.
"I want you to know I had no idea what Eleanor intended when she—"
"You weren't at the wedding," I said.
He blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"You weren't at the wedding.
You sent a gift.
Julian told me you had a prior engagement." I opened the folder in front of me.
"Which is interesting, because the estate's primary financial server was accessed remotely at nine forty-seven that evening.
From a Connecticut IP address registered to your home."
The smile didn't disappear.
But it changed.
"I'm not sure what that has to do with—"
"Someone accessed the server while the warrant was being executed," I said.
"They attempted to delete a folder labeled Administrative Archive 2013 through 2019.
The deletion failed because our team had already imaged the drive at nine thirty-one." I looked up at him.
"Sixteen minutes before the access attempt."
Whitfield looked at his attorney.
His attorney said nothing.
"Thomas," I said, "you didn't come here to tell me something.
You came here to find out whether that deletion worked."
The room was very quiet.
He leaned back in his chair.
The smile was gone now.
"You're sharper than Julian gave you credit for," he said.
"Most people are."
"He said you were good at your job.
He didn't say you were—" He paused.
"He didn't say you'd been watching us the whole time."
"Nine months," I said.
"Since before Nora was conceived."
Something moved behind his eyes.
"Then you already know everything."
"I know enough," I said.
"The question is whether you're going to make this easier or harder for yourself."
He looked at me for a long moment.
May you like
Then he looked at his attorney.
"Get me a meeting with the prosecutors," he said.
