The doors opened.
I looked straight at her and said: no.
I said: if she goes to prison, it will be because of whatever she did.
They got in. The doors closed.
That evening I hired the best investigator I know.
PART 3
Three days later Arvo Lind came into my office with a file and put it on my desk, and he did not sit down straight away, which he always does.
I said: what did you find?
He sat down. And then he said one sentence that stopped everything in my body.
He said: your sister doesn’t need that million to cover a failed investment.
He said: she needs it to hide why a twenty-four-year-old woman may never walk again.
There is a charitable foundation.
It funds prosthetics, adaptive equipment and rehabilitation for people under thirty who have lost a limb. It has raised, over eleven years, somewhere north of nine million dollars.
My sister is its chief executive. She has been since 2016.
The audit next week is the foundation’s annual audit, brought forward by a new trustee who asked one reasonable question in the spring.
And the missing million is eleven years of Celestine taking from it, in small pieces, through consultancy invoices and an events company that has one director.
Then I turned to the second section of that file.
And I found out what that foundation is called.
It is named after me.
It was registered in 2014 using my birth name — Petra Fisk — which is a name I stopped using at eighteen, when I took Norah’s.
There is a logo with my initials in it.
There is a paragraph on the website about the young woman it is named for, who lost a leg to bone cancer at ten and went on to build a company, and who prefers to keep her involvement private.
That last clause is the piece of work in all of this that I admire most, in the way you admire a good lock.
Because it explains, in six words, why nobody has ever seen me at anything. Why there is no photograph. Why a donor who asked would be told, gently, that she does not do events.
