Chapter 122

Chapter 122

The person sending the texts knew where the box was. He even knew what was inside.

But he didn't come get it himself.

He was waiting for her to get it.

Why?

Evelyn's hand moved away from the box. The warmth from her five fingertips left marks on the tin surface, already cooling and fading fast.

"Because of this lock," Evelyn said, answering her own question. "Only I can guess the combination."

Cedric's fingers tapped the desk once.

"He knows where the box is, knows what's inside, but can't open it." Cedric's analysis reached the same conclusion. "So he used the text to lure you there, showed up at the signing to provoke you—he's pushing you."

Evelyn nodded.

"He's desperate."

Outside the window, the sunlight began to slant, stretching their shadows longer and longer. The shadows extended from the desk to the floor, Cedric's shadow falling over Evelyn's like a layer of protective camouflage.

"What now?" Cedric asked.

Evelyn looked at the rust-stained metal box.

"Open those seventeen letters."

Evelyn didn't open the letters at Parker Group's office.

She brought the box back to Cedric's apartment. Not the safe house—the one where he actually lived, with the display case and that old photo frame.

The choice was instinctive. She needed a space that carried his presence. Not for a sense of security—Parker Group's protection was already enough—but so that when she opened those letters, she'd be surrounded by a warmth she could touch.

Nine p.m. Only a floor lamp was on in the apartment's living room. Its warm yellow glow pooled around the sofa area, pushing the other corners into soft shadow.

Evelyn sat cross-legged on the carpet, the metal box on the coffee table in front of her. She'd arranged the seventeen envelopes in a row, from 001 to 017, like a line of silent soldiers.

Cedric sat on the sofa behind her. His legs slightly apart, Evelyn's back resting against the inside of his knee. One hand draped over the armrest, the other hanging down, fingers idly playing with the stray hairs behind her ear.

He didn't rush her. He was just there.

Evelyn picked up envelope 001.

The paper felt brittle, the yellowed edges looking more like age than water damage. The flap was sealed tight with glue. Evelyn found a letter opener and carefully sliced along the seal.

She pulled out two sheets from the envelope. Not letter paper—one A4 photocopy and one handwritten note.

The photocopy showed a bank transfer receipt. The sender was a subsidiary of Ashford Group, the recipient a name Evelyn didn't recognize—"Harbor Exchange Industries, Inc." Amount: twenty-three million. Transfer date: twenty-two years ago.

The handwritten note had only one line. Lily's handwriting.

[This payment was partial settlement for Ashford Group's acquisition of the Hawk family's port shares. The Hawk family never received it.]

Evelyn's fingertip pressed on that line, her skin feeling the tiny indentation where the ink had pressed into the paper. Twenty-two years old, the ink long dry, but the impression of the strokes remained like a shallow scar.

She set 001 aside and picked up 002.

Opened it. Another transfer receipt and note. Different recipient name, eighteen million this time. The note read: [This payment's destination unknown, no corresponding record in the Hawk family accounts.]

003, 004, 005.

Evelyn opened them one by one. Each envelope followed the same format: one photocopy, one handwritten note. Amounts ranging from a few million to tens of millions, recipient names all different, but not a single dollar had reached the Hawk family accounts.

By the ninth envelope, Evelyn stopped.

Her fingers had gone stiff.

The apartment's heat was on, the carpet thick and soft.

The accumulated weight of those numbers felt like stones piling up on her chest, one by one.

Cedric's hand moved from her hair to the back of her neck. The warmth of his palm came through the thin fabric, steady and solid. His thumb pressed gently at her hairline, just enough pressure to ease the tension in her muscles.

Evelyn tilted her head back against his knee, closing her eyes for two seconds.

"The first nine add up to about two hundred and thirty million." Her voice came out muffled from the tilted position. "That money should have been the Hawk family's."

Cedric looked down at her. From this angle, he could see her pale forehead, her half-closed lashes, and the shallow mark at the corner of her mouth from pressing her lips together too long.

"Your mom spent years photocopying these receipts, one by one." Cedric's voice was low, not analyzing—saying the words Evelyn didn't want to say. "Every day at Ashford Group, she was stealing evidence."

Evelyn opened her eyes, looking up at him. From this angle, his jawline looked sharp as a blade, but the light in his eyes was soft, like half-melted ice.

"She was alone." Evelyn's voice cracked slightly. "Twenty-some years ago, no camera phones, no cloud backup. She could only photocopy during lunch breaks, during overtime, one sheet at a time, hiding them and smuggling them out."

Her voice fractured on the last word, the natural response of vocal cords unable to bear a certain weight.

Cedric's fingers slid from her neck to the side of her face. His fingertip traced along her cheekbone, slowly, carefully, like outlining something precious.

"Keep going, or tomorrow?" No pressure in his voice, only a gentle "whatever you need."

Evelyn sat up straight. Her back left his knee, the warmth instantly diluted by the air. But Cedric's hand remained on her shoulder, fingers resting near her collarbone, lightly gripping the fabric.

"Keep going."

She picked up the tenth envelope.

010 was thicker than the others. When she opened it, there was more than just a transfer receipt.

There was a photograph.

The photo was a blurry reproduction—looked like it had been shot with an old film camera pointed at a document.

The image showed a handwritten agreement, the paper looking like it had been torn from some ledger.

Evelyn took nearly three minutes to read through the agreement's contents.

The gist: Ashford Group agreed to transfer fifty percent of the excess profits from acquiring the Hawk family's port shares into a designated offshore account as 'dark money.' In exchange, the account holder guaranteed never to publicly disclose the "irregular methods" used during the acquisition.

Two signatures at the bottom.

On the left was Susan Ashford's name. On the right—

Evelyn's breath stopped.

On the right was a signature in handwriting she'd never seen before—yet somehow felt she recognized.