Dead eleven years.
Monica looked back at the handbag.
“You found the bag in the house of the executive running the division when my mother was fired.”
“Yes.”
The absurdity was so clean it almost felt fictional.
Monica closed her eyes.
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“And you contacted me last month.”
“Yes.”
“Why seven months?”
Camille did not defend.
“Because the archive team had to establish provenance before contacting anyone.”
“Seven months?”
“Yes.”
Monica opened her eyes.
“You already had the serial number.”
“We had a number.”
“What else did you need?”
“Chain of custody.”
Monica laughed bitterly.
“Interesting concern.”
Camille took the hit.
“Yes.”
She continued.
“The house contained approximately four hundred brand-related objects collected over five decades.”
“Some were gifts.”
“Some purchases.”
“Some prototypes lawfully transferred.”
“Some event loans.”
“Some had no documentation.”
“B-4178 was in an archival wardrobe box labeled Autumn Presentation, New York.”
Monica stared.
“Was my mother’s name anywhere?”
“Not on the box.”
“Then how did you find her?”
Camille looked toward the letter.
“The inventory number.”
“Once Elena’s team entered it, the old loss record appeared.”
“Your mother’s termination was linked.”
Monica’s jaw tightened.
“Loss.”
“Yes.”
“Not theft.”
“No.”
“Yet she was fired.”
“Yes.”
Camille’s voice softened.
“I know.”
“No.”
Monica shook her head.
“You know the record.”
“That is different.”
Camille did not argue.
Again, Monica respected that.
“Who signed the termination?”
“Harold Price.”
Monica almost laughed.
Still alive.
Ninety, perhaps.
Her mother had spoken his name only twice in twenty-seven years.
Both times with the same expression.
Harold.
Not Mr. Price.
Just Harold.
As though formality would have given him too much.
“Is he part of the review?”
“Yes.”
“He agreed to speak to counsel.”
“What did he say?”
Camille looked toward the administrative stairs.
“That is why we need to go upstairs.”
Monica looked at the bag one more time.
Then carefully touched the leather.
No one stopped her.
The calfskin had softened with age.
A slight indentation remained near the base of one handle.
Her mother would have noticed that.
Denise noticed everything.
Uneven stitching.
Dried edges.
Weak corners.
Poor lining tension.
She could tell whether a handbag had spent years standing upright or lying flat by the way the base settled.
Monica’s fingertips moved toward one seam.
“She repaired this.”
Camille stared.
“You can tell?”
“No.”
Monica smiled sadly.
“I want to be able to.”
That was honest.
She removed her hand.
“Let’s go.”
The upstairs conference room was less beautiful than the sales floor.
Good.
Truth usually improved when furniture became less impressive.
A rectangular oak table occupied most of the room. On it sat three archive boxes, two laptops, several folders, a digital recorder, and a tray of untouched coffee.
Elena Brooks appeared on a video screen from Paris.
Beside the screen sat Thomas Reeve from the company’s legal department and Maya Patel, an independent employment historian retained after the bag was discovered.
Monica almost laughed at the phrase employment historian when she first heard it.
Then Maya explained her role.
Old personnel files.
Labor practices.
Retirement records.
Internal memos.