Chapter 182 The First Thread
Annabelle sat alone in her office, the faint hum of the city barely reaching through the thick glass windows.
The room was quiet except for the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. Her father’s words echoed in her mind—those closest to you may not be who they seem.
She stared at her computer screen. Dozens of files were open, their names familiar yet distant. She had gone through them countless times in the past, but tonight, she was not just reviewing them. She was searching—really searching—for something that didn’t fit.
Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard as she opened the financial records from her father’s company—the same company that had been taken from him before his arrest. The numbers looked clean, polished, and ordinary. Yet something about the dates bothered her.
“Why does this entry not match the audit date?” she murmured.
She clicked on the document again, zooming in on the transfer made three years ago. The file showed a payment to a consulting firm she had never heard of. It wasn’t large—barely enough to raise suspicion—but the date was off by two days compared to the signed approval.
Two days shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Her father had always been precise about such things. He would never authorize a transfer before the approval form was signed.
Her brows furrowed as she leaned back in her chair. “What were you trying to hide, Father?”
The door opened softly. Carson stepped in, holding two mugs of coffee. His smile was gentle but tired. “You’ve been in here all evening,” he said, setting one mug beside her. “You need a break.”
Annabelle didn’t look up. “I can’t stop now. There’s something here. It’s small, but it feels wrong.”
Carson moved closer, resting a hand on the back of her chair. “What are you looking at?”
She pointed to the screen. “This transfer. It doesn’t make sense. The firm name—‘Lormac Consultants.’ I checked their registration record. They were dissolved a month before this payment.”
Carson frowned slightly, leaning in. “You’re sure about that?”
“I double-checked it,” she said quickly. “It’s not a clerical error. The money went somewhere, and someone made it look legitimate.”
He paused for a moment, studying her face instead of the screen. “Annabelle,” he said softly, “you’ve been through so much. Maybe you’re just—”
“Seeing things?” she interrupted sharply, turning to face him. “That’s what you think?”
He sighed. “No. But you’re tired. Your father’s words have shaken you, and maybe you’re connecting dots that aren’t really there.”
Annabelle shook her head. “No. He was warning me about something. About people. About lies. I know what I saw in his eyes, Carson. He wasn’t rambling.”
Carson reached out and gently took her hand. “I believe you,” he said carefully. “I just don’t think you should do this alone. If there’s something dangerous here, we need to be cautious.”
His tone was kind, but Annabelle noticed the hesitation behind it—the way his eyes darted to the files on the table before returning to her. “Cautious,” she repeated quietly. “Meaning I shouldn’t dig too deep?”
He gave a faint smile. “Meaning some doors are better opened with care.”
Annabelle didn’t reply. Instead, she pulled her hand away and turned back to the screen. She could feel Carson’s gaze on her for a few seconds longer before he sighed and stepped back.
“I’ll be in the other room if you need me,” he said finally, and left.
The door closed softly behind him, leaving her in silence once more.
Annabelle took a slow breath and opened another file—this time, one from her father’s trial. She scanned through the witness statements, the evidence logs, and the prosecution’s timeline. Everything lined up too perfectly. Every accusation, every document, every testimony fit together without a single contradiction.
It was too clean.
Real life was never that clean.
Her father’s words came back again, colder this time. The true architects of my downfall.
She picked up her notebook and began scribbling notes. The transaction dates, the firm name, the time gaps—all linked to a small circle of people. She drew lines between them, connecting company names and board members, tracing connections through years of records.
Then she stopped.
One of the board members listed on the audit committee had once worked with her mother.
Her eyes widened slightly. “No… it can’t be.”
The realization sent a chill down her spine. She remembered her mother’s reaction earlier that week—the tight smile, the evasive answers, the flicker of fear when she mentioned her father’s warning.
Annabelle closed her eyes, trying to steady her thoughts. “If she knows something…” she whispered.
Her phone buzzed suddenly, startling her. It was Carson.
“Hey,” she answered.
“Annabelle, are you okay?” His voice was calm, but there was a strange edge to it. “You seemed upset when I left.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I just… found something.”
“Something about your father?”
“Yes. A name. I think it’s connected to the people who framed him.”
There was a pause. “Who?”
“Someone who worked with my mother,” she said slowly.
Another silence. “That’s a big claim,” Carson replied at last. “Be careful with that, Annabelle. You don’t want to accuse your family without proof.”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” she said, her tone sharp. “I’m finding the truth.”
“I understand,” he said softly. “Just promise me one thing—don’t go digging where you shouldn’t. Not yet.”
Her heart tightened. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because sometimes,” Carson said quietly, “the truth costs more than the lie ever did.”
The line went dead.
Annabelle sat frozen, her phone still in her hand. His words lingered, mixing with her father’s warning until they felt like the same message from two different mouths.
She turned back to her computer and saved the files to an encrypted drive. Her instincts screamed that she was right—that something was buried beneath the surface. And Carson’s sudden caution only confirmed it.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the faint reflection of herself on the darkened monitor. The fear in her mother’s eyes. The pride and pain in her father’s. The strange restraint in Carson’s voice.
There was a thread running through them all.
And she had just pulled it.