Sex, Lies and the CEO

Jennifer dug down and removed a worn leather wallet from the box, then turned the case over in her hands. “This is your dad’s stuff?”

“It’s from his top dresser drawer.” Darci gazed at the small collection of her father’s things. “I packed it away when I cleared out his apartment. I was too emotional to look through it that day.”

Jennifer looked worried. “You want me to leave it alone?”

Darci knew there was no point in procrastinating any longer. She perched on the other stool and took a bracing sip of the wine. “I’m ready. It’s been three months.”

Jennifer reached back into the carton and came up with an old wooden box.

“Cigars?” she asked.

“I only ever saw him smoke cigarettes.”

“It looks pretty old.” Jennifer sniffed at the wood. “Cedar.”

The lid was secured with a small brass clasp, and she slipped it free.

Darci felt more curious than distressed. She still missed her father every day, but he’d been sick and in pain for many months before his death. And though she didn’t know all the details, she knew he’d been in emotional pain for years, likely since her mother had taken off when Darci was a baby. She was beginning to accept that he was finally at peace.

Jennifer raised the lid.

Darci leaned in to look.

“Money,” said Jennifer.

The revelation confused Darci.

“Coins.” Jennifer lifted a row of plastic sleeves containing gold-and-silver coins. “It looks like a collection.”

“I sure hope they’re not valuable.”

“Why would you hope that?”

“He struggled for years to make ends meet. I’d hate to think he deprived himself and saved these for me.”

“He was still buying single malt,” said Jennifer.

Darci couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Born and raised in Aberdeen, Ian Rivers swore by a strong, peaty Scotch.

“What’s this?” Jennifer pulled a folded envelope from beneath the coins. A photograph was tucked in the fold, and she drew it out.

Darci checked the picture. “That’s definitely my dad.”

Ian was standing in a small, sparse office, his hand braced on a wooden desk. She flipped the photo, but nothing was written on the back.

Jennifer opened the unsealed envelope.

“A coin appraisal?” Darci guessed, taking a sip of her wine.

“A letter.”

“To my dad?”

It must have had significant sentimental value. Darci couldn’t help but wonder if it was a love letter. She even dared to hope it was from her mother, Alison. Though Alison Rivers had never contacted them, it would be nice to think she might have thought about them once in a while.

“It’s from your dad. To someone named Dalton Colborn.”

Darci’s stomach did a flip. She hadn’t heard the name in years.

Jennifer glanced up at the silence. “You know him?”

“I never met him. He owned Colborn Aerospace. And he was once my Dad’s business partner.”

“Your dad was involved in Colborn Aerospace?”

“It was a different company they had together, D&I Holdings. I don’t know much about it, and it all ended when I was just a baby.” Darci gazed at the picture. “Dalton and my dad were both engineers. They opened a company together, but it all fell apart, apparently quite badly. For as long as I can remember, Dad would fly into a rage whenever he saw the Colborn name.”

“There’s a thirty-two-cent stamp on it,” said Jennifer. “Never mind old, that’s ancient. It was never mailed.”

The flap on the envelope gaped open.

“Read it,” said Darci.

“You sure?”

Darci slugged back a swallow of wine. “I’m sure.”

* * *

Shane Colborn sent the fuchsia hardcover skittering across his wide cherrywood desk. Justin Massey, head of the legal department at Colborn Aerospace, trapped it before it could drop to the floor.

“Well, that’s a new low,” said Shane.

He hated reading about himself. Business articles were bad enough. The tabloids were worse, but they were mercifully short. This mess was appalling.

“There’s no way to stop it from being released,” said Justin. “We were lucky to get our hands on this copy.” He paused. “So, how much of it is true?”

Shane struggled to clear the anger from his brain. “I don’t know. Are you looking for a number?”

“Sure. Give me a number.”

“Twenty, maybe thirty percent. The dates and places and events are all accurate. But I sure don’t talk like an eighteenth-century poet in bed.”

Justin’s face broke into a grin.

“Shut up,” Shane ordered.

“I never said a word.”