Close it.
Nathaniel laid the paper flat between us.
“He intercepted it.”
“You don’t know the whole chain yet,” Simone cautioned.
“But this certainly warrants examination.”
I read the two words again.
Close it.That was how my babies’ existence had been treated: as a file that needed closing so a wealthy man could finish a business deal without distractions.
“There is more,” Nathaniel said.
Owen produced a copy of a corporate register showing the company to which I had transferred my design business years earlier.
The family had continued using my original portfolio materials in development proposals after the divorce.
Some project renderings bore my initials, but contracts identified the work as proprietary to Whitcomb Properties.
I could barely speak.
I had wondered why former clients stopped answering my messages after I left Connecticut.I had assumed they believed the gossip about me being unstable and ungrateful.
Now I began to see another explanation.
