Chapter 22: The Gala

Abby's POV

Three hundred people in black tie stood and applauded when my father walked into the ballroom.

The Whitcroft Holdings seventy-fifth anniversary gala had not been canceled.

The state investigators had taken the ledger from Anson's hands on the tarmac, and that was all they could do on a Friday.

Lawrence had no warrant against him yet, and he had known it.

He came in on Saturday night in a midnight tuxedo, with a gold pen in his breast pocket and Portia on his arm.

She looked straight ahead and did not smile.

Dot and I watched from the balcony above the dance floor.

My mother sat beside me in her wheelchair, in a gray silk gown, with her pearls back at her throat.

"I want to do it," I said.

"I know," she said. "Do it for both of us."

Anson stood at the rail in a black tuxedo, with his hands on the wood.

He turned his head and looked at me for a long moment.

"Go," he said. "I'm right behind you."

I walked down the grand staircase in a green dress that Dot had bought with her own credit card.

The orchestra was still playing.

My father saw me and lifted his glass, smiling.

"My daughter," he told the room. "My lost girl, home at last."

Applause rolled across the floor.

These were the same faces that had laughed at the party.

I took the microphone from the bandleader's hand.

"Good evening," I said. "I'm Abigail Whitcroft. You can call me Abby."

"I'm an accountant, so I'll be brief and exact."

"Please turn on the screen."

The wall behind the orchestra lit up with a photograph of a gray ledger.

"This is the second set of books for Whitcroft Holdings. It was kept in a safe in my father's study."

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