For a beat, the progress bar crawled. Then it stopped dead.Failed to upload.
Norah leaned back in her chair, pulse hammering now. Someone or something was blocking her.
She rebooted, jaw tight. The Summit logo pulsed across her screen, then her desktop reloaded. She opened the NorthBridge file again and ran the macro.
The histogram loaded . . . perfect. A textbook slope.
No jagged skyline. No missing ones. No clumped nines.
Gone.
Her chair creaked as she leaned forward, staring at the smooth, placid results. “No,” she whispered. She flipped between tabs, widened the ranges, pulled raw exports. Every view showed the same thing—nothing.
She refreshed. Still normal. She opened another ledger. Normal. All of it.
Her mouth went dry. Someone hadn’t just cut off her access—they’d rewritten all the data.
Her mind slipped back to the fact that Marshall had been here yesterday. And after he’d been at Summit, the data had changed. Why had he been so adamant that she back off? Was he involved in the cover up? What other motive could he have for her to stay away?
Everything she knew about Marshall Kelley rebelled against the thought. She’d never met someone as principled and duty-bound as him. That was, after all, what had ended their relationship. But that was fifteen years ago. People changed.
Had Marshall changed that much?
She pressed her palms to the desk, trying to slow the tumble of thoughts. Richard Hale would know. He always knew. He’d vouch for her.
He’d fix it.
She shut her laptop and stood. The view from her window of the Potomac blurred at the edges. She adjusted her blazer, grabbed her notebook, and went to find him. She trusted Richard.
It wasn’t just professional respect. Richard had stepped into a place she hadn’t even realized was hollow. Her father had been gone before she was old enough to know him, and the men who followed never lasted long enough to be trusted. That kind of absence left a mark—an instinct not to lean on anyone because they were bound to leave. But Richard was different. He didn’t vanish. He showed up in meetings and late-night reviews. And in the small things. He treated her like a person, not just an employee.
His office occupied the southeast corner, the best light on the floor. Inside, the bookshelves were lined with framed photos of charity galas and conference panels, a subtle trophy case of connections.
“Knock, knock.” She tapped on the doorframe as she said the words.
His head snapped up. Richard Hale sat at his desk, tie a little crooked, his coffee mug balanced in one hand, his phone in the other. He was in his fifties, sharp-witted, and just rumpled enough to seem approachable in a building full of polished glass men.
Norah exhaled, forcing composure. “Morning, boss.”
“Morning?” He set the mug down on the corner of his desk, checking his watch. “It’s almost two, Winslow. When was the last time you went home at a reasonable hour?”
She managed a half-smile. “Define reasonable.”
“Before the cleaning crew starts vacuuming.” His grin softened the rebuke. “You work too hard. You can’t neglect Cleo.”
She chuckled. Somehow he always remembered the little details. She swore she hadn’t mentioned her cat more than once.
“Comes with the job. And Cleo will forgive me for the low price of some extra treats.” She hesitated, then settled into achair. “Actually...I wanted to ask you about something in the NorthBridge portfolio.”
Richard’s expression didn’t waver. “Sure, what’s up?”
She walked him through the variance she’d seen. She explained the histogram that didn’t align, and the fact that it had since...smoothed out.
He listened, nodding slowly, sipping his coffee.
When she finished, he leaned back. “Acquisitions like NorthBridge are messy. Always have been. Mid-sized firms in growth mode usually are. Did I ever tell you about the Beringer acquisition, fifteen years ago?”
She shook her head.
