The next morning, armed with Claire’s bank record, we were on a train to Manhattan. The city skyline rose into view, a concrete jungle hiding a thousand secrets.
We found Arthur Pendelton’s office in a polished glass tower in the financial district. His name was engraved on a brass plaque, looking respectable and unassailable.
His secretary, a woman with tight grey hair, looked up with an air of mild annoyance. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Claire stated, holding up the bank statement. “But I think Mr. Pendelton will want to see us.”
The secretary’s eyes flickered to the paper. A moment later, Pendelton himself emerged from his office, a forced smile on his face. He was an older man, portly, with thinning gray hair.
His smile faltered the moment he saw Claire and then me. His eyes darted to the bank record in Claire’s hand.
His face drained of color. “What is this?” he stammered, his gaze fixed on the document.
“This is a record of $450,000 wired from Julian Harrington’s account to yours, Mr. Pendelton,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “On May 15, 2014. The day after my granddaughter was supposedly stillborn.”
Pendelton’s eyes widened. He quickly pushed the secretary back into her chair and pulled us into his office, slamming the door shut with a heavy thud.
The sudden confinement made the air feel thin. He moved to his desk, fumbling with a key, and locked the door from the inside.
He turned, his usual smooth composure shattered. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Look, I… I can explain,” he began, his voice raspy. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that, wasn’t it?” Claire pressed, her voice sharp. “You signed off on fraudulent medical forms. A stillbirth certificate for a baby that was alive.”
Pendelton wrung his hands. “I was under pressure. Tremendous pressure. From a highly connected estate representative. I just… I notarized the paperwork, that’s all. I didn’t harm anyone.”
He took a deep, shaky breath. “The baby was taken to safety. That’s what I was told. A private adoption. For a fee, of course.”
“Who was the estate representative?” I demanded, my heart pounding. “Who gave you these instructions?”
He shook his head frantically. “I can’t say. They threatened everything. My pension, my license… my family.”
“Julian Harrington?” Claire pressed. “Was it Julian?”
Pendelton looked away, his jaw working. “I’m not at liberty to say who was involved. But I assure you, the child was placed safely. They were very specific about the terms.”
“What terms?” I asked, leaning forward, desperate for every detail.
“Monthly payments,” he mumbled, wiping his brow. “For her upkeep. And to ensure silence.”
Before he could elaborate, the distinct wail of sirens pierced the air outside, growing louder with each passing second. Red and blue lights began to flash through the office window, bathing the room in an eerie, pulsing glow.
Pendelton froze, his eyes wide with terror. He looked from us to the window, then back again.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “They found me.”
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