I was too tired to examine anything. His house surprised me because nothing about it tried to impress anyone. It was a modest two-story home on a quiet street, the kind with a small porch, practical furniture, and a kitchen that had clearly been used everyday. Malachi handed me a clean towel, showed me the guest room, and found a charger that fit my phone. He did all of it without treating me like I was fragile.
That mattered. Pity would have sent me back into the rain faster than suspicion. Instead, he said there was tea in the kitchen if I wanted it and left me alone. When my phone came back to life, the world returned with it. There were dozens of messages, most of them useless.
Reporters wanted comment. Board members used careful language that said nothing. People I had considered friends sent variations of thinking of you without asking whether I needed anything. Ronin had sent one sentence. I hope we can keep this professional.
I stared at it until anger became cleaner than shock. Then I called an outside attorney I had trusted for years. She could not take the matter because of a conflict, but she said she would ask around for someone in Pittsburgh who handled executive and shareholder disputes. What I did not know at the time was that after she made two inquiries, one of the names quietly placed in front of her had come from Malachi through a mutual professional contact. He never hired the lawyer.
He never told her to take my case. He simply made sure the right name entered the right conversation, then let the choice move forward without attaching himself to it. I would learn that much later. The next morning, I intended to leave before Malachi's daughter came downstairs. Instead, I woke to toast and the sound of a cabinet closing.
I had slept in borrowed sweatpants and one of Malachi's old college shirts because my suit was still damp. When I entered the kitchen, an 11-year-old girl with dark braids looked at me over a bowl of cereal. Malachi introduced her as Emani. She looked at my face, then at the expensive shoes I had left near the door, then back at me. "You're the lady from the news," she said.
Malachi's expression tightened. Immi. She looked at him. What she is? I almost laughed, which felt inappropriate enough that the laugh became real.
Yes, I told her. I am. Immi accepted the answer and returned to her cereal. She did not ask whether I had stolen money, whether I was still rich, or whether I was famous. She asked if I wanted the last piece of toast.
That was the first genuinely normal question anyone had asked me since the board meeting. I said yes. By 9 that morning, the attorney referral came through. Her name was Nadia Hollowwell. She spoke with the efficient bluntness of someone who did not need to perform confidence because she already had it.
After I explained the suspension, she told me not to return to Aelis, not to contact employees about evidence, and not to make public statements until she reviewed the governance documents. She warned me that staying somewhere reporters could locate easily would complicate everything. I told her I could book a hotel. You can, she said, but if you already have a private place where you feel safe for 48 hours, use it. Right now, privacy is useful.