Page 60 of Seal My Fate

Investigating dad’s crimes.

“I heard you have a new chef,” I reply instead. “One who doesn’t char everything to a crisp. I couldn’t miss the chance at an edible meal here, for a change.”

“It’s lovely to see you again, Lillian,” Tessa speaks up, and I can see her fix a bright smile on her face, despite my mother’s coolness.

“Indeed.” My mother’s eyes drift over her. “It’s… nice to see you, too. We’re so lucky you could tear yourself away from your studies at Oxford to join us tonight.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Tessa replies, completely unfazed by the icy reception. “I’m no longer a student there. You see, Saint invited me to drop out and move in with him, and he wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer, would you, muffin?” She moves to my side, slipping her hand possessively through my arm, and batting her eyelashes at me.

Muffin?

I try not to laugh. “That’s right, pumpkin,” I reply, seeing the amusement sparkling in her eyes. “I just couldn’t stand to be away from her.”

“You’re… living together?” My mother repeats, sounding horrified.

“Yup!” Tessa beams. “Shacked up. Living in sin. My poor granny would be rolling in her grave. She always said, men never buy the cow if they can get the milk for free!”

“Oh.” My mother looks like she might faint. Luckily, my father strolls in, and greets the two of us with at least a little more warmth.

“Tessa, I hear you’re going from strength to strength at the Ambrose Foundation,” he says, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “Hugh was singing your praises just the other day. I’ve half a mind to poach you, bring you in-house at Ashford. You know, we have our own philanthropic department, funding drug research and vaccine access in developing countries. We spent a hundred million last year on charitable efforts, and hope to double it, soon enough.”

“That’s… Wonderful,” Tessa replies, and only I could tell that her enthusiasm is strained. “What amazing work you do there. Making a difference. Leading by example.”

“Well, we try!” My father gives a chuckle.

I watch him pour Tessa a drink and try to reconcile the man in front of me with everything I’ve learned over the past week. Could he really have ordered the murder of Dr DeJonge, and the violent cover-up of Ashford’s fraud? Sent a man to stalk and kill Tessa and her sister—and then stand in front of her tonight, making polite conversation and handing her a gin and tonic like nothing has even happened?

I feel a chill, unable to wrap my head around the duplicity it would take to do those things. It’s downright sociopathic.

“Tell me about this social media business you have going on there,” my father asks Tessa, as they take a seat. “I have to say, I can’t be done with it myself.”

“Isn’t it all terribly vulgar?” my mother asks, “People braying for attention on their mobile phones all day.”

“Mother,” Robert chides her. “Don’t be rude.”

“I wasn’t calling Tessa vulgar,” Lillian protests, although the way she’s looking at her betrays her true feelings. “Merely that I don’t understand this constant need for the spotlight. It’s so… American.”

Tessa smirks. “Is that so? I heard thatBig Brotherwas invented here in England. So really, you’re all to blame for reality television.”

As they start debating the ills of social media, I realize it’s the perfect moment to slip away.

“Be right back,” I say quietly, edging towards the door. “Just need to check on some things, with Harold in accounts.”

My mother barely nods, still focused on attacking Tessa—politely, of course. I don’t worry, Tessa can more than hold her own. She gives me a private nod, as I slip out of the room.

Go get ‘em.

I stride quickly down the hallway, towards my father’s study at the back of the house. It’s a wood-paneled room lined with old bookcases, my father’s antique desk positioned in front of the window with stacks of papers, and his laptop sitting right there beside them.

If this encryption key is anywhere, it’ll be close by.

I begin to methodically search the room, starting with the desk drawers, rifling through the contents in turn. A part of me hopes that I don’t find the damn thing. I know that we need it to unlock the information on the hard drive, but if I find it here, it confirms my worst suspicions. There’s still a part of me holding out that perhaps, it could be someone else in the company who’s behind all this. Perhaps another executive, or board member—

And then I see it: A yellow notecard propped against the desk lamp, right in front of me.

14 random letters and numbers, scrawled in my father’s handwriting.

Dammit.

---