Chapter 7: Forty-Seven Recordings
Arthur Fenwick arrived at their apartment at eleven o'clock with a woman he introduced as Dr.
Priya Nair, an intellectual property attorney who had, in Arthur's words, "spent twenty years making sure people like Victor Blackwood don't get away with things like this."
Priya was small and precise and looked at the USB drive the way a surgeon looks at a scan — with focused, professional interest and no visible emotion.
"Play me the first one and the last one," she said.
Nora played them.
When the final recording ended, Priya sat quietly for a moment.
Then she said: "How many people know this drive exists?"
"Victor's lawyer," Nora said.
"I told him on the phone this morning.
I don't know if that was a mistake."
"It wasn't," Priya said.
"It means they know you have something.
It changes their calculation." She looked at Arthur.
"We need to move faster than I thought."
"How fast?" Arthur said.
"I want certified copies made today.
Three sets.
Different locations." She looked at Nora.
"The original drive stays with you.
Don't let it out of your hands."
"What does this mean?" Chloe said from the doorway.
She was still in her dress from the night before, her hair loose around her shoulders.
"Does it mean we win?"
Priya looked at her with the careful attention of someone recalibrating.
"It means we have a very strong case.
It doesn't mean it's over." She paused.
"What's your name?"
"Chloe."
"Chloe, your father was very smart.
He recorded dates, locations, exact words.
He documented the pressure Victor put on him to sign.
He documented the moment Victor told him Gerald Marsh had already witnessed the document — which would have been physically impossible, given that Mr.
Marsh was already gone." Priya set her hands flat on the table.
"Your father knew what Victor had done.
He just didn't have the strength left to fight it himself."
Chloe was quiet for a moment.
"He was sick by then."
"Yes."
"Victor knew he was sick.
That's why he moved when he did." It wasn't a question.
Priya didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Nora watched her daughter's face — that same focused, measuring expression from the night before — and felt something shift in her own chest.
Not grief, exactly.
Something older than grief.
The particular pain of seeing your child understand something about the world that you wished they never had to understand.
"Chloe," she said softly.
"I'm okay, Mom." Chloe came and sat next to her at the table.
"What do we do next?"
Priya opened her briefcase.
"We file.
And before we file, we make sure the right people see the recordings." She looked at Arthur.
"The board meeting is Thursday?"
"I can move it to Wednesday," Arthur said.
"Do that." She looked at Nora.
"Victor is going to come at you before then.
He'll try a different number.
He may try something less polite than a number.
I need you to document every contact — every call, every message, every approach.
Don't respond to any of it without calling me first."
Nora nodded.
"One more thing." Priya's voice was careful.
"The journalist who was at the event last night.
From the Tribune.
Has she contacted you?"
"Not yet."
"She will.
Don't speak to her yet.
But don't close the door." Priya almost smiled.
"Public pressure is not a legal tool.
But it is a tool."
That afternoon, Victor's lawyer called three more times.
Nora let each one go to voicemail.
The offers went up with each message.
By the third call, Hargrove's voice had lost its smoothness.
There was something underneath it now — not quite panic, but the controlled tension of a man watching a situation move faster than he can manage.
That evening, Nora's phone lit up with a number she didn't recognize.
She almost didn't answer.
She did.
"Mrs.
Cole." A woman's voice.
Young, direct.
"My name is Simone Adler.
I'm a reporter with the Tribune.
I was at the Blackwood gala last night." A pause.
"I think you should know — I wasn't there by accident.
May you like
I've been investigating Victor Blackwood for fourteen months.
And I think what your daughter did last night just broke this thing open."
