Hollis van inspection.
Fuel line concerns.
Adrian rushed.
Talked to E. after holidays?
My breath caught.
E. That was me.
I turned another page.
November 14. Called A. Not right. Papers and trucks don’t match. He got angry. Said I didn’t understand business.
November 15. Call again tomorrow. Elena needs to know.
The accident had been November 16.
I sat down on a cardboard box because my knees suddenly felt unreliable.
It was not proof of anything dramatic. It did not say Adrian had caused harm. It did not say my father had been in danger. But it said Adrian had spoken to him. It said there had been an argument. It said my father had intended to tell me something.
And Adrian had let me believe there had been nothing.
My phone rang just as I closed the notebook.
The screen showed a name I had not expected.
Paige Ellison.
For a moment I considered letting it go to voicemail. Then I remembered her face in the courtroom when she learned Adrian had not told her the truth either.
I answered.
“Mrs. Lane?”
“It’s Elena.”
A pause.
“Elena. I’m sorry to call. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from.”
“You’re not at the top of the list,” I said.
There was a small, startled breath on the other end. Not quite a laugh.
“I deserved that.”
I waited.
“I resigned this morning,” Paige said.
That surprised me. “From Hollis Transit?”
“Yes. Adrian asked me not to. Then he asked me to wait until after the financial review. Then he said leaving now would make him look guilty.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“I believed him,” she said softly. “Not about everything. I knew your marriage was ending. I knew he was still legally married, and I told myself all the things people tell themselves when they want to feel less responsible. But I didn’t know about the company. I didn’t know about the boys.”
Her voice thinned at the end.
I looked at my father’s notebook resting open in my lap.
“Why are you calling me, Paige?”
“Because yesterday, after court, I went back to my office to clean out my desk. Someone had already been there.”
“What do you mean?”
“My files were moved. A drawer was open. And there was a flash drive taped under my keyboard.”
A cold awareness moved through me.
“What was on it?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid to open it on a company computer. But there was a label.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did it say?”
“Lane original records.”
The storage unit seemed to shrink around me.
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“In my car. Near a coffee shop on Maple Avenue.”
“Stay there,” I said. “Don’t call Adrian.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.”
Paige was parked at the far end of the lot when I arrived, wearing sunglasses despite the gray morning. Without the polished office lighting and perfect company posture, she looked younger and more tired than I expected.
She got into my passenger seat without speaking at first.
For a while, we sat side by side watching people carry lattes and paper bags out of the coffee shop as if the world had no idea our lives were being rewritten in a parking lot.
Finally, Paige reached into her purse and handed me a small silver flash drive.
“I haven’t opened it,” she said.
“Why give it to me?”
“Because your name is on it.”
I studied her. “And because?”
She looked down at her hands. “Because Adrian has a way of making people feel chosen when he needs them. I mistook that for love.”
There was no performance in her voice. No attempt to win my sympathy. Just a tired, honest sentence.
Against my own expectations, my anger softened around the edges. Not disappeared. Not forgiven. But changed shape.
“Paige,” I said, “I’m not ready to comfort you.”
“I know.”
“But I appreciate you bringing this.”
