Chapter 3 — The Woman in the Photograph

Luca studied the two records side by side.

“Elise’s code should have been retired after she died,” he said.

“Apparently someone kept using it.”

“Sal copied an old route. He may not have known whose it was.”

“That’s possible. It doesn’t explain the call to Owen’s residence.”

We were in his office with the door shut. I had brought printouts of the grant record, the trust registration, and Sal’s transfers. Luca had called his security director about the attempted records request, but I had made him wait until Ms. Parker sent me the number. I did not want anyone questioning staff at Owen’s home because Luca was impatient.

He did not like waiting. He did it anyway.

“Julian handled the trust after Elise died,” Luca said.

“Did he control her approval codes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we ask him.”

Luca’s face closed.

I gathered my papers. “I’m visiting Owen on Sunday. After that, I’ll call Julian myself.”

“You don’t have his number.”

“I found his professional listing in six minutes.”

“That sounds like you.”

“It’s on the trust registration.”

Luca looked toward the window. “Julian and I haven’t spoken in nine years.”

“I gathered.”

“He thought Elise died because of me.”

The rain had stopped. Late sunlight cut across the desk, catching the edge of the framed photograph beside Luca’s lamp. Elise looked directly at the camera, one eyebrow raised, as though she had just heard a joke no one else understood.

“Did he tell you that?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing useful.”

I waited, but he offered no more. I took my papers and went back to work.

On Sunday, I arrived at Owen’s residence at two. He checked the clock above reception when I came in.

“You’re early,” he said.

“By two minutes.”

“Three.”

I handed him the train magazine. He examined the cover before hugging me.

We ate lunch in a quiet room overlooking the garden. He told me a maintenance worker had finally fixed the rattling vent outside his room. I told him Rebecca had found a photograph from the year we went to the railway museum.

“Can I show you?”

“Yes.”

I took out the picture of Elise. Owen held it by the corners, careful not to bend it.

“She bought the hot chocolate,” he said.

I tried not to sound startled. “At the museum?”

“Yes. You left yours on the table because the train demonstration started.”

“You remember her?”

“She asked if I liked living near the station.” He looked up. “I said I liked knowing when trains arrived.”

“Did she ask you anything else?”

“She asked what I wanted to study.”

“What did you say?”

“Buildings. But you said I could change my mind.”

I remembered saying that. I did not remember Elise standing with us.

Owen turned the photograph over. “She asked you something too.”

“What?”

“What you would do if you weren’t always working.”

I looked at the trees beyond the window. At that age, I worked at the bookstore, took classes, and kept an appointment calendar for Owen that was thicker than my own.

“What did I say?”

“You said you’d build a place where people could stay when things got bad.” He considered me. “I thought you meant a train station.”

A memory surfaced: a woman with paint on her cuff, listening while I complained that every form of help came with a deadline. Three nights in an emergency bed. One semester of aid. Six visits with a counselor. I had said people needed somewhere they could breathe long enough to make a plan.

Elise had asked how I would run such a place.

I had told her I couldn’t afford to find out.

“Owen, did you see her again?”

“No. But she mailed me a map.”

“What map?”

“The old rail lines. It’s in my blue box.”

With his permission, we went to his room. He took a large folded map from a labeled storage box. Inside was a short note in blue ink.

For Owen. You showed me that knowing the route can make a strange place feel safer. Thank you.

It was signed

Elise

.

Owen watched me read it.

“She was nice,” he said. “Are you in trouble because of her?”

“No.”

I folded the note carefully. “Somebody at work is asking questions about money she gave me. I’m finding out why.”

“Can I help?”

“You already have. May I photograph this?”

“Yes. Put it back in the blue box after.”

I did.

On my way out, Ms. Parker gave me the details of the call. It had come from an office switchboard used by Moretti Freight, but the caller had withheld her extension. She had asked for records by name and referred to a “benefits audit” that did not exist.

I sent the information to Luca. Then I went to Rebecca’s bookstore.

Elise’s photograph had been taken at one of the first Harbor House properties. Rebecca still had the scrapbook open behind the counter. I looked more closely at the other pictures: Elise beside volunteers, a row of newly painted doors, a woman holding a toddler in front of an apartment marked

4B

.

Under that picture, a typed caption listed the project director’s name. It wasn’t Julian. It was a woman called

Marian Kessler

.

“Do you remember her?” I asked Rebecca.

“Only that Elise stopped bringing her to meetings. I assumed she’d changed jobs.”

Marian was now the chief financial officer at Moretti Freight.

She had sat across from me in budget meetings for eleven months. She had seen me trace Sal’s transfers that Thursday morning.

At home, I spread the records across my kitchen table. Elise’s grant authorization carried the trust’s printed approval code and a handwritten signature. Marian’s name appeared in the photograph caption from the same month. Sal’s recent transfers used the old code, but whoever arranged them would have needed access to the archive.

I enlarged the signature on my laptop.

The first letter looked like an E. The last name looked like Moretti. But the pen strokes broke in odd places, and the date had been squeezed into a gap too small for it.

I called Luca.

“Owen remembers Elise,” I said when he answered. “She met us at the railway museum. Rebecca also kept pictures from one of Elise’s housing projects.”

“And?”

“Your CFO worked on it.”

“Marian? She’s been with my company for years.”

“That’s why she could reach the archive.”

“You have proof she used the code?”

“No. I have a reason to check the original grant file.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ve already requested my university record. We compare both copies.”

“Nora—”

“There’s one more thing.”

I looked again at the grant approval. For nine years, I had been grateful to an anonymous donor. I had begun the week believing Elise was that donor. Now I could not even be sure she had approved the payment bearing her name.

“The signature on my grant looks wrong,” I said. “I need to know whose handwriting it really is.”