Chapter 2 - The Eleven Missing MinutesBy four o'clock, Nora had eaten half a bowl of warm soup, drunk a little milk, and fallen asleep on the sofa in my private sitting room.
I sat beside her while the physician examined her hands.
“Cold exposure and irritation,” he told me quietly. “There doesn't appear to be a serious injury, but keep them warm and clean. If the swelling worsens or she complains of persistent pain, contact me immediately.”
I thanked him and watched him leave.
Nora stirred beneath her blanket.
“Mr. Luca?”
“I'm here.”
“Are you going to tell Mama I was bad?”
My chest tightened.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Even though I got your shirt dirty?”
“Even then.”
She studied my face with the grave concentration of a child trying to understand an unfamiliar rule.
“Why?”
I brushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead.
“Because clothes can be washed. Little girls shouldn't have to be afraid of grown-ups.”
She appeared to consider that.
Then she closed her eyes again.
I remained beside her until I was certain she was asleep. Only then did I walk to the security office, where Mateo had already begun pulling system logs.
He was a broad-shouldered former police investigator in his forties, with a habit of examining everything twice. He had worked for me for three years and was the only member of my staff I'd trusted to challenge Harland's decisions when necessary.
He turned his monitor toward me.
“The footage is stored on two systems,” he explained. “The primary server and the backup unit in the basement. Someone accessed the primary server and submitted a deletion request. Fortunately, the backup wasn't connected to the same administrative account.”
“Can you recover the missing footage?”
“I'm trying. The deletion wasn't a simple overwrite. It looks more like someone attempted to remove the file index while leaving portions of the original video intact.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning whoever did it knew what they were doing.”
I leaned over his desk.
“Show me the logs.”
Mateo opened a second window.
The activity list displayed a series of commands, each marked with a timestamp. The first request had been made at 2:17 p.m., shortly after I'd entered the laundry room.
The final request appeared at 2:24 p.m.
Seven minutes.
Seven minutes during which someone had apparently attempted to erase eleven minutes of recorded footage.
“Can we identify the terminal?”
“Not conclusively yet. The command originated from the administrative network, but it was routed through a remote access session. Someone used credentials belonging to your office.”
“My office computer?”
“Possibly. Or a device authorized to access it.”
I considered that.
Harland had access to the administrative office. So did Vivian Cole, my chief financial officer, although her access was supposed to be restricted to financial software.
I had personally approved both permissions.
For years, I'd regarded those privileges as practical conveniences. They allowed my staff to solve problems while I dealt with acquisitions, investments, and the business interests that paid for the estate.
Now those same conveniences looked like unlocked doors.
Mateo opened the secondary footage.
The laundry-room camera showed the room from a high angle. The recording began with Nora standing beside the sink, her tiny shoulders hunched over my shirt.
She rubbed the fabric.
Stopped.
Wiggled her fingers.
Then resumed rubbing.
My hands curled into fists.
“Go back thirty seconds.”
Mateo rewound the footage.
A figure appeared in the doorway.
Harland.
He stood in the laundry room for forty-three seconds, speaking to Nora. The microphone caught only fragments.
“...finish before he gets back...”
Then:
“...your mother understands the agreement...”
Finally:
“...good girls help their mothers.”
Nora nodded.
Harland walked away.
I felt something cold move through my stomach.
“Can you enhance the audio?”
“We can try.”
Mateo adjusted the recording.
The words became clearer, though the sound remained imperfect.
Harland had not simply discovered Nora washing the shirt.
He had directed her to do it.
I stared at the screen as the child struggled with the heavy fabric. When she stopped to rub her hands, she glanced toward the door. A few seconds later, she began working again.
“Stop.”
Mateo paused the video.
I pointed to the corner of the screen.
“What is that?”
A small sheet of paper had been tucked beneath the laundry basket. Its upper edge bore the familiar blue-and-gold crest of my estate.
Mateo zoomed in.
It was a notice.
The camera angle made the smaller writing impossible to read, but I recognized the title.
FINAL OCCUPANCY WARNING.
“Harland's folder,” I murmured.
Mateo nodded.
“Looks like it.”
“Can we determine when that document entered the room?”
“Not from this camera. But the corridor camera might show him carrying it.”
He opened the next recording.
At 2:11 p.m., Harland appeared in the corridor holding a folder.
He paused outside the laundry room.
Looked toward the main hallway.
Then entered.
Six minutes later, he emerged without the folder.
I watched the sequence again.
“What happened to the eleven missing minutes?”
Mateo switched back to the file index.
“I'm still trying to reconstruct them. But the deletion request targeted the period between 2:06 and 2:17.”
“That includes the time before he entered the laundry room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So whoever removed the footage wanted to hide more than his conversation with Nora.”
“That's my concern.”
I walked to the window.
Beyond the security building, gardeners were trimming the hedges around the eastern lawn. The estate looked as immaculate as it had that morning.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, the foundations of everything I believed about my home had begun to crack.
“Mateo, I want every employee interviewed privately. No one should know we're investigating this unless they absolutely need to.”
“Understood.”
“And secure Harland's office computer.”
Mateo hesitated.
“There's another problem, sir.”
I turned.
“Go on.”
“An access request was submitted for Elena Reyes's personnel file at 3:02 p.m. The request came from the same administrative account that attempted to delete the footage.”
“Was the file opened?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“The system records your administrator identity.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Can we tell what was accessed?”
He brought up the audit log.
The file had been opened, printed, and exported to an external drive.
“Was anything changed?”
“Not that I can confirm.”
“Then find out where the exported copy went.”
Mateo nodded.
I was about to leave when my phone rang.
The caller was Elena Reyes.
I answered immediately.
“Luca,” she said, sounding breathless. “I'm sorry. I heard you came home early. I need to explain what happened with Nora.”
“Where are you?”
“At my apartment.”
“Are you feeling well enough to talk?”
A pause.
“I'm fine.”
It was the sort of answer people gave when they were anything but fine.
“I'm sending a car for you.”
“No, please. Mr. Harland said I shouldn't leave my apartment until he contacts me.”
I stared at Mateo.
He had heard every word.
“Did Harland tell you that personally?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Why?”
Her breathing became uneven.
“He said there had been a problem with my employment agreement. He said I should stay home, keep Nora with me, and wait for further instructions.”
“And you agreed?”
“What choice did I have?”
The question was so quiet that I almost missed it.
I lowered my voice.
“Elena, nobody is going to dismiss you or take your home away today. I need you to come to the estate so we can discuss what happened.”
She began to cry.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just one small, exhausted sound, followed by an attempt to regain control.
“Mr. Luca, I didn't steal anything.”
“I didn't say you did.”
“He told me you were going to ask about the missing money.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“What missing money?”
Silence.
Then Elena whispered, “The money from your mother's foundation.”
Mateo slowly turned away from his monitor.
I gripped the phone.
“My mother didn't have a foundation.”
Elena gave a broken laugh.
“That's what Mr. Harland told everyone, too.”
The room seemed to grow smaller.
I had spent seven years trusting Harland to manage my home.
I'd also spent those years believing that my mother had left behind a modest estate, a few investments, and no outstanding charitable obligations.
If Elena was telling the truth, then there was an entire part of my family's history I had never known.
“What foundation?” I asked.
Before she could answer, I heard a door slam on her end of the line.
Her breathing changed.
“Someone's here.”
“Elena, who?”
“I don't know. Mr. Harland said nobody would come until tomorrow.”
I stood.
“Lock the door.”
“I already did.”
A sudden knock interrupted her.
Three sharp blows.
Then Harland's voice came through the phone, distant but unmistakable.
“Elena? Open the door. We need to settle this before Mr. Luca makes things worse.”
Her breath caught.
“Don't hang up,” I told her.
But the line went dead.
I called back immediately.
No answer.
Mateo was already moving toward the door.
“Sir?”
I grabbed my coat.
“Get the car ready.”
As we hurried outside, my phone vibrated again.
This time, it was a text message from Elena.
PLEASE DON'T LET HIM TAKE NORA.
A second message arrived seconds later.
HE SAYS HE KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED TO MY HUSBAND.
I stopped so abruptly that Mateo nearly collided with me.
Elena had never mentioned a husband.
And Harland had just threatened her with a secret involving a man I had never heard of.
I read the message once more.
Then I looked toward the road leading out of the estate.
May you like
For seven years, Harland had been the person who opened every door in my life.
Now I was beginning to understand that he might have been the reason so many doors had remained closed.
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