Chapter 3 - A Fracture in the High Castle
Ten days passed in Boston, and the silence from Tessa Voss had become a physical disease eating away at Conrad’s composure.
Conrad sat at the head of the polished mahogany table in the boardroom of Voss Capital Management on the fiftieth floor of the Financial Center. Outside, sunlight glittered off the glass towers of Boston, but inside the temperature felt glacial.
Across from him sat Richard Vance, the private investigator, laying out a thin manila folder.
"Nothing?" Conrad’s voice was dangerously low.
"Mr. Voss, she hasn't used her social security number. She hasn't filed for a change of address. She hasn't contacted her distant cousins in Ohio. She hasn't touched the emergency joint accounts," Vance said meticulously. "We flagged her name at every luxury hotel, regional airport, and train station within five hundred miles. It’s as if she vanished off the face of the earth."
Conrad pushed the folder away without opening it. His dark hair was slightly longer than usual; the faint shadows beneath his eyes hadn't been erased by his usual double espresso.
"People don't vanish, Vance," Conrad said, leaning forward. "She has no career. She hasn't held a job in five years. What is she eating? Where is she sleeping? Find the small regional banks. Check bus terminals. I want her found before the quarterly foundation gala on Friday."
"May I speak candidly, sir?" Vance asked, closing his notebook.
Conrad’s eyes darkened. "Careful."
"If she doesn't want to be found, and she hasn't taken your money, the law is on her side. She’s an adult woman who walked out of her own home. If we push too hard with police resources or private networks, this will leak to the press. And right now, the market is watching the upcoming merger with the Sterling Group."
Conrad stood abruptly, turning his back to the investigator to stare down at the city. "The merger depends on my stability. Tessa has always been the face of our charitable foundation. The Sterling family values traditional partnerships. If word gets out that my wife abandoned me in the middle of the night without taking a single dollar, do you know what the board will think?"
*They will think I couldn't keep my own house in order,* Conrad thought fiercely. *They will wonder what kind of monster makes a loyal wife walk into a freezing rainstorm with nothing.*
That evening, against his better judgment, Conrad attended the preview opening at the Harrington Art Gallery. Elena was there. When she saw him enter, her eyes lit up with predatory relief. She was wearing an emerald silk gown, looking exquisite, poised to reclaim her position by his side.
She glided toward him, offering a champagne flute. "Conrad. I knew you’d come."
Conrad looked at her. Two weeks ago, her youth, her sharp wit, and her unabashed admiration for his power had made him feel invincible. Tonight, standing under the glaring gallery spotlights, he saw the calculated angle of her smile. He noticed how her eyes scanned the crowd over his shoulder, checking to see who was watching them.
"Have you spoken to her?" Elena asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close. "You shouldn't let her hold your life hostage, darling. Everyone knows you gave her five wonderful years. If she wants to throw a tantrum, let her file for divorce. You can replace her on the foundation board in a week."
Conrad looked down at Elena’s wrist. It was bare.
A memory hit him with the force of a physical blow: three years ago, during the foundation’s annual winter ball, an elderly donor had suffered a mild heart attack in the foyer. While Conrad and the other executives had frozen, terrified of a PR scandal or an awkward scene, Tessa had quietly dropped to her knees in her couture gown, loosened the man’s tie, held his trembling hand, and spoken to him with such calm, radiant tenderness that the man’s panic had subsided before the paramedics arrived. Tessa hadn't cared that her silk dress was ruined by the wet marble floor. She had cared about the man.
Elena wouldn't kneel on a wet floor if someone’s life depended on it.
"Excuse me," Conrad said coldly. He turned on his heel, leaving Elena standing alone in the middle of the crowded gallery, the champagne flute trembling in her hand.
May you like
Conrad walked out into the chilly night air, reached into his breast pocket, and felt the small, cheap silver bracelet he had taken to carrying with him. It felt like an anchor dragging him down into the ocean.
***
