At one in the morning I came in to fire my secretary, but her notes contained the cause of my son’s death and someone lost color

That night I found my secretary in the office not simply asleep, but in such a condition as if her body were slowly disappearing in someone’s hands. Outside, the Boston storm was counting the eleventh hour when I got out of the car and entered the logistics building at the Atlantic harbor. I did not want to go home. That evening one of the deals had ended bloodily, and in the morning, as soon as it dawned, I had decided to fire Erin Walsh.

She had worked beside me for three years. She knew my calls, held my secrets, and arranged the company accounts so that a superficial inspection noticed nothing. But in recent months Erin had been changing. She came late, her clothes hung on her body, and her face had shadows that even careful makeup could not cover.

The guard told me that she was asleep upstairs, at her desk.

“Did she enter alone?” I asked the guard by the elevator.

“Mrs. Walsh said she would stay for another hour. But it has already been four hours; she has not come out.”

“Did anyone go to her?”

The guard shook his head. A wet hat was being squeezed in his fingers.

“No one appears on the cameras, Mr. Cross.”

The private elevator rose silently. When the wooden doors opened, only the cold light of a computer could be seen in the corridor. I reached toward my weapon, then slowed my steps. In my world, an open door often meant a trap.

Erin sat at the glass table, her head resting on unsorted papers. A large, dark jacket had slipped from her shoulders. I had never seen that jacket before. On the table lay a small amber pillbox, whose lid had a lighthouse engraved on it, broken at the corner.

I listened to her breathing. It was shallow. Uneven.

“Erin,” I called.

She did not move.

I wanted to strike the table and tell her to collect her things in the morning. Then I noticed an envelope bulging in her bag. It bore a hospital stamp. On the envelope it said that confidential medical records were inside.

This was her private matter. I knew that. But paranoia had saved me for fifteen years, and it had one rule: a secret hidden near me was always a danger.

I carefully took out the envelope. Erin moaned in her sleep and put her hand on her stomach. As if she were protecting something, or someone, from herself.

On the first sheet was an ultrasound image. A small, curled fetus against a black background. On the second page was the doctor’s conclusion: the sixteenth week of pregnancy, high risk.

My breath caught.

Four months earlier, in Miami, during a storm, we had been locked together in a safe house for three days. Then what we had hidden for three years had revealed itself at least once. In the morning we both acted as if nothing had happened.

The third sheet trembled in my hand.

A toxicology result. Traces of thallium and arsenic had been found in the body. Long-term poisoning in small doses. Immediate intervention was necessary to save the mother and the fetus.

Someone was killing her.

“Damian…” Erin opened her eyes.

Her voice could barely be heard.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

First she looked at the sheet clenched in my hand, then toward the door. The blood finally fled her face.

“You should not have found it.”

“Tell me the name.”

Erin opened her lips, but at that moment the elevator bell sounded in the corridor. Someone was coming upstairs. I drew my weapon, stood in front of Erin, and stared at the closed folder left on the table. Her hand slowly reached the folder’s lock, and just then…

Just then the elevator door opened. The folder’s lock caught in Erin’s fingers, while I pointed the weapon toward the corridor. The sound of wet shoes approached, heavy and calm, as if the person who had come were not afraid at all of the night, the locked office, or my gun.

“If this is someone, whoever it is,” I whispered, “stand behind me.”

“It is too late, Damian,” Erin answered.

Marcus Vale appeared in the corridor, my chief financial officer. He held a black umbrella, and water ran from his coat onto the floor. His face was normally calm, but his eyes fixed first on my weapon and then on the folder.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked.

“I should ask you the same. The security boys told me that Mrs. Walsh became ill.”

Erin clenched the amber box in her hand. Its edge dug into her skin.

“You should not have come,” she said.

Marcus smiled.

“I wanted to take you to a doctor. You do not ask anyone for help, after all.”

“To a doctor?” I repeated. “She has already gone to a doctor.”

Marcus’s smile disappeared for only one second. It was enough.

“Then everything is all right,” he said. “And I hope you respect medical records.”

“How do you know they are medical records?”

The sound of the storm entered the room. Marcus slowly folded the umbrella and leaned it against the wall.

“You told me yourself.”

“No. I have not told you anything yet.”

His jaw tightened.

Erin tried to stand, but her knees gave way. I caught her. Her body was so light that fear clenched my stomach.

“We are going to the hospital,” I said.

“I cannot go,” she breathed.

“Why?”

“Because he finds me there too.”

Marcus tilted his head to the side.

“Damian, this is a pregnant woman’s fear. She has become paranoid in recent weeks.”

“How long have you been watching her?”

“I watch the company’s finances. Not her private life.”

Erin squeezed my wrist. Her nails sank into my skin.

“Be quiet if you want the baby to survive.”

She did not say those words to me. She was looking at Marcus.

Marcus took one step forward.

“You are very tired, Erin. Come, I will take you home.”

“You are taking her nowhere,” I said.

“You remain her boss, Cross. Not her doctor.”

“Today I will be both.”

Marcus took out his phone. A message lit up on its screen, and then I noticed that its time was twelve minutes past midnight, while the sender read: “The matter is finished.” He immediately turned off the screen.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

“No one.”

“Give me the phone.”

His gaze hardened.

“Careful, Damian.”

It was a threat. Not a warning.

Erin finally opened the folder’s lock. Inside were several sheets, a small memory card, and a copy of my company warehouse card. The doctor’s handwriting was visible on the first sheet, but below it were Erin’s own words: “The person poisoning me is near me every day. He is also deceiving the baby’s father.”

“Did you write this?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Because the first time I asked for help, he was standing beside you.”

Marcus suddenly struck the table with his fist. The pillbox jumped on the glass surface and fell to the floor. The small lid cracked, and the engraved lighthouse split in two.

“Enough of this theater!” he shouted.

My guard said something into the radio. No answer came from below.

Erin picked up the amber box and held it out toward me.

“There are no medicines inside anymore,” she said. “I took the last pill in the morning. But this box was hiding a camera.”

Marcus’s face turned gray.

I looked at the box’s broken lid. Inside, in a thin plastic layer, I saw a small lens.

“Whom were you recording?” I asked.

Erin took the memory card from the folder.

“Him. And your office.”

“Who is on the recording?”

She placed the card in my hand, but before she could answer, an alarm sounded from the lower floor. Marcus looked toward the door, then suddenly ran toward the window. I moved to catch him, but Erin seized my arm.

“Do not let him go yet,” she whispered. “If he finds out, the second man will die immediately…”

At Erin’s last words I released my grip. Marcus did not reach the window lock, because my two guards burst into the room. One locked the door; the other blocked Marcus’s way. The storm hammered its fists against the windows.

“Nobody leaves,” I said.

Marcus turned his head toward me.

“You have no idea whom you are opposing.”

“Now I have an idea.”

I inserted the memory card into the laptop. At first only dates appeared on the screen. Then the video began.

The recording was from my office kitchen. The time was three twelve at night. Marcus stood before the camera, holding a small transparent bottle. He went to the coffee machine, poured liquid into a cup, and took from his pocket a small container resembling Erin’s amber box.

His voice could be heard clearly in the video.

“Two more weeks and the baby will not survive. Then we will tell Damian that Erin was ill and decided to leave the company herself.”

Erin lowered her eyes. She wrapped her hands around her stomach.

“No…” she whispered.

Marcus stared at the screen. As if he could not recognize his own face.

The video continued. Another man entered the room—Dr. Alan Whitfield, the doctor whose signature stood on the medical conclusion.

“The dose was high,” the doctor said. “The next analysis will reveal it.”

“There will be no next analysis,” Marcus replied. “Her file at the clinic has already been changed.”

The recording stopped.

For several seconds only the rain could be heard in the room.

“You bought the doctor?” I asked Marcus.

“You cannot prove anything.”

“I have already proved it.”

Erin picked up the printed copy of the recording. Below, her handwriting could be seen: “Marcus Vale changes my coffee every day. Dr. Whitfield told me that I must hide the pregnancy. If anything happens to me, tell Damian that this was their plan.”

“Why did you not tell me the baby was mine?” I asked Erin.

Pain passed through her eyes.

“Because Marcus told me he intended to kill you too. He said that if I revealed the pregnancy, we would both lose you on the very first night.”

“And you believed him?”

“That one night with you was the most precious thing to me. I did not want you to die too because of my fear.”

Marcus laughed bitterly.

“You are both fools. After the child is born, the company will still be mine. Damian signed the power of attorney three years ago.”

“I did not sign it,” I said.

“That is what you think.”

At that moment a call came to my phone. The clinic’s number appeared on the screen. Dr. Whitfield was calling.

“Do not answer,” Erin said.

But I answered.

“Mr. Cross,” the doctor’s voice trembled, “is there a security team in your office?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because before you go to the police, you must know this: your partner, Jonathan Hale, is at the clinic right now. Marcus has tampered with his medical records.”

I looked at Marcus.

For the first time I saw fear on his face.

“Who is Jonathan?” Erin asked.

“The company’s lawyer,” I answered. “The only man who has every copy of the power of attorney.”

On the other line the doctor continued speaking.

“Mr. Cross, Hale found the financial records. Marcus transferred millions in your name. But the most dangerous thing is that he has a document proving that you yourself ordered Erin’s poisoning.”

Marcus suddenly pulled a small knife from his pocket and lunged toward Erin. The guard twisted his arm, and the knife fell to the floor.

“Call Jonathan!” he shouted.

“Why?”

“Because he is already dead.”

Before I could answer, an unfamiliar man’s voice sounded on the line.

“Damian,” Jonathan said, “I am alive. But Marcus’s folder contains your signature. And that signature is real.”

I looked at Marcus. He was smiling.

Jonathan added quietly:

“If you want Erin to remain alive, come alone to the old harbor at eight in the morning. Otherwise, it will not be you but your signature that goes to court in this matter…”