Page 73 of This is a Kissing Book

The heaviness of dread drops my shoulders because someone has definitely been using company access and resources to make unauthorized decisions about insurance premiums and valuations. The patterns are subtle but consistent—certain pieces appraised significantly higher than market value, insurance payouts processed without proper documentation, and claims approved by someone with executive-level access.

I tilt my head, studying one particular entry. Odd. I didn’t realize the Pedrosa piece was in our collection. I recall Dad going on and on about it last Christmas—how it was one of the most significant acquisitions in the company’s history.

But according to these records, we’ve had it for over a year. That doesn’t add up.

And the insurance valuation is nearly triple what comparable pieces have sold for at auction.

My stomach sinks as the implications hit me. Either someone is running an elaborate insurance fraud scheme using Meridian Holdings as cover or … or my father is more involved in this than I want to believe.

The thought makes me feel ill. Dad has always been ruthless in business, sure, but honest. At least, I thought he was honest. However, people change. Mom used to say he was different when they first met, before the company consumed his entire life.

According to her journals, the man she fell in love with wasn’t the one she was married to before she passed. I believe it broke her heart.

Maybe we never really knew him at all.

A soft knock on my door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Jules appears in the doorway, concern pinching her pretty face.

“You’re working late,” she observes.

“Could say the same about you.”

“I was just finishing up some things before tonight.” She steps into my office and closes the door behind her. “You look pale. Maybe you ought to go boating with Bear Cub. Get some sun.”

“I just spent two days golfing. Also, it’s Bīriņš. Anyway, he’s back in Latvia before—” I’m about to say before preseason training starts up again, but cut myself off.

“Is anything wrong?” she asks, the picture of innocence, never mind her criminal paintbrush skills.

I stare at her for a long moment, debating how much to tell her. She’s already risking everything to help me find those letters. How can I burden her with my suspicions about my own father? About my actual identity?

“Just work stuff. Nothing that can’t wait until Monday.”

“Good, because we should go get nachos.”

“Nachos?”

“Whatever is on your mind is nacho problem.”

My laugh is delayed. “Jules, that’s awful.”

“But it’s true, and it wiped that troubled look right off your face.” Then she slides into the chair across from my desk and fixes me with a penetrating stare, reminding me of when we really thought we hated each other.

“If you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, I’m going to stare at you until you crack. See that bare bulb above your head? It’s the last light you’re ever going to see.” She imitates a hard-hitting Chicago detective as she puffs on an invisible stogie.

Despite every instinct warning me to protect her from this mess, I find myself wanting to tell her everything. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Jules, it’s that she’s predictably unpredictable—and exactly the kind of person I want on my side when everything falls apart.

“How much do you know about insurance fraud?” I ask.

Her eyebrows raise. Her complexion is now pale. “More than I probably should. Why?”

I turn my computer screen toward her with the files I’ve been analyzing on display. “Remember those discrepancies you found?”

“The ones you told me in no uncertain terms to forget about?”

Lips pressed together, I nod with regret. “I followed a few leads and am worried there might be a traitor in our midst.”

“Dramatically intriguing.” She cranes forward and scans the content on the screen.

“Do you see what I see?”