Chapter 6 - The File in the Sewing Cabinet
The investigation lasted four months.
It moved faster after the documentary footage became evidence.
Billy's records established the design trail.
Deardra's documents strengthened it.
Financial auditors uncovered irregular vendor payments connected to Second Thread.
Several former designers came forward.
Some had stories remarkably similar to Owen Ror's.
Billy sat in Rafe's office one rainy afternoon while attorneys reviewed the settlement proposal.
Rafe stood beside the window.
Without the jacket, the tattoos across his forearm were fully visible beneath his rolled black shirtsleeves.
Billy looked at the paperwork.
“This number can't be right.”
“It is.”
“This is more money than I've made in my entire life.”
Rafe glanced over.
“That isn't an argument against it.”
Billy looked at him.
“Did you influence this?”
“No.”
“Rafe.”
He walked toward her.
“I made sure nobody buried it.”
“That's influencing it.”
“Then yes.”
Billy shook her head.
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
Their relationship had become strange during those four months.
Rafe called too often.
Billy challenged him too often.
He sent a private car for Deardra's appointments.
Billy sent it back.
He sent another.
She sent that back too.
Finally, Deardra had called him personally.
“Stop sending cars.”
Rafe had replied, “Your daughter walks home alone after midnight.”
“She's been doing that for years.”
“Exactly.”
Deardra paused.
Then said:
“Send something less ridiculous.”
The next day, Rafe arranged a regular licensed car service for Billy's late shifts.
She accepted only after discovering her mother had approved it.
Now Billy signed the settlement.
“What happens to Sabine?”
“Civil cases continue. The financial investigation isn't mine to control.”
“And Second Thread?”
“Finished in its current form.”
Billy nodded.
Rafe sat opposite her.
“I have a proposal.”
“No.”
“You haven't heard it.”
“I've learned that your proposals are expensive.”
“This one involves the Windmir.”
Billy leaned back.
“I'm listening.”
“Create a legitimate design program.”
Her expression changed.
“For young designers?”
“For anyone whose work wouldn't normally get through those ballroom doors.”
Billy stared at him.
“You're serious.”
“Yes.”
“And who runs it?”
“You.”
Billy laughed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I'm a waitress.”
Rafe's expression didn't change.
Billy stopped laughing.
He said:
“Don't ever use Sabine's definition of you again.”
That landed harder than she expected.
Rafe leaned forward.
“You spent four years tracing corporate records while working two jobs and caring for your mother.”
Billy looked away.
“You built a case professional investigators missed.”
“Because it was personal.”
“That doesn't make it less impressive.”
Billy was quiet.
“What would we call it?”
Rafe looked toward the old sketch framed on his wall.
It was Owen's original reverse-bead design.
“The Ror Initiative.”
Billy's eyes filled.
She immediately blinked the tears away.
“That's terrible.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow.
“You're crying.”
“Because the name is so bad.”
“Obviously.”
She laughed.
Then she extended her hand.
“Fine.”
Rafe took it.
“Fine?”
“One year.”
“Three.”
“One.”
“Two.”
Billy narrowed her eyes.
“Eighteen months.”
Rafe smiled.
“Deal.”
She started to release his hand.
He didn't.
Billy looked down.
Then up.
“Rafe.”
“Yes?”
“You can let go.”
“I know.”
Neither moved.
Billy finally said:
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“My mother already likes you.”
“I know.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I know.”
Billy stared at him for another second.
Then kissed him.
It was brief.
Unexpected.
And when she pulled away, Rafe Santangelo—the man half of Boston was supposedly afraid of—looked genuinely stunned.
Billy smiled.
“Now you can let go.”
May you like
He didn't.
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