“Where?” Celeste demanded.
My father’s eyes stayed on mine.
“With Evelyn.”
I laughed once, breathless and broken. “What?”
“You were four. You carried a stuffed rabbit everywhere. Your grandmother had sewn a silver music charm inside it. I replaced the charm with the drive.”
My childhood flashed before me.
A white rabbit with velvet ears.
I slept with it for years. Took it to boarding school. Packed it away when I married Adrian.
“It’s in my old room,” I whispered.
My mother covered her mouth.
Celeste’s face tightened with fury. “You hid the master ledger in a toy?”
“In my daughter’s safest place,” my father said.
Celeste stared at him.
Then she laughed.
It was wild and sharp and full of years.
“All this time.”
A phone rang.
Not mine.
Celeste answered.
Her expression changed.
“What do you mean he’s here?”
The warehouse doors slammed open.
