Chapter One
Rhea
TheroadnarrowsasI climb into the mountains. Pavement gives way to gravel, and the trees press closer on both sides. I have been driving for an hour, watching the landscape shift from highway to backroad to something that barely qualifies as either.
My hands ache from gripping the wheel. The rental car was not built for this kind of terrain, and every pothole reminds me that I am far from the city now. Far from the clean lines of office buildings and the predictable rhythm of conference calls.
Pine Hollow appears around a bend like an afterthought. One main street. A handful of buildings clustered together as if they decided safety lay in numbers. I slow as I pass the welcome sign and count what passes for commerce here. A diner with faded paint. A hardware store. A post office that looks like it might close for lunch and forget to reopen.
And there, wedged between the post office and a building that might be a barbershop, I spot a narrow office with a window decal:
Gideon Hale
Private Investigator
I park across the street and sit with my hands on the steering wheel. The engine ticks as it cools while I try to work up the nerve to confront the detective.
I need him to hear me out… to believe me.
I understand how things look on paper, and I know that once a story starts circulating, it gains momentum whether or not it contains any truth.
This whole mess started when I discovered what looked like a simple accounting error. But then I spotted another… and then another. The missing money wasn’t dramatic. No massive withdrawal. No single red flag that would trigger an immediate audit. Just small amounts gone over time, careful enough to blend into the noise of routine transactions. But it’s been going on long enough to become noticeable, and I’m the easiest person to blame.
The newest accountant. The one who reported the problem. The one whose login credentials appear in all the right places at all the wrong times.
I reported the discrepancy because it was my job. Because ignoring irregularities seemed worse than flagging them. I did not expect the response to be silence followed by scrutiny. Questions about my processes. Requests for documentation I had already provided. The slow, careful construction of a narrative that did not include me as the person who found the problem, but as the person who might have caused it.
And then the clincher: the firm hired a private detective to investigate, and they didn’t invite me to talk to him.
Someone’s up to no good, but it’s not me.
I’m innocent, and I refuse to be the scapegoat. So, the detectivewillhear my side of the story… whether he wants to or not.
I take a deep breath and step out of the car. The air is cooler up here, cleaner. My boots crunch over gravel as I cross the street. I do not allow myself to hesitate before pushing the door open.
Inside, the space is spare. A desk. Two chairs facing it. A coat rack in the corner. A filing cabinet. No receptionist. No clutter. The heater hums quietly in the background, and I get the distinct impression that I am not alone even though I cannot see anyone.
"I'm looking for Gideon Hale," I say to the empty room.
There’s movement near the back wall. A man straightens from a chair positioned behind the filing cabinet, where he has been partially hidden from view. He is tall, broad across the shoulders, his posture relaxed but alert in a way that makes it clear he noticed me before I noticed him.
When his gaze meets mine, it is direct and assessing. As if he has already started cataloging information.
"You found him," he says.
"I'm Rhea Martinson," I say. "And I’m here to talk about RidgeLine Development."
Something shifts in his expression. His attention sharpens, tracking my face, my stance, the fact that I do not look away.
"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to one of the chairs.
I sit. He moves around the desk but remains standing, one hand resting on the back of his chair.
"What exactly do you want to talk about?" he says.
I raise my chin, leveling my gaze on him. “I know you were hired to look into possible embezzlement, and I could tell by the look on your face that you recognized my name. But if you’re thinking I’m the guilty party, you’re wrong.”
His jaw tightens. Just slightly. Enough that I notice.
