Chapter 8: The Missing Annex
"Annex C is not in the corporate archive."
Nathan said it as if absence settled ownership.
Ms. Vale had requested the digital contract set while Rhea presented the original. The archive returned fourteen pages—the same shortened version in the board binders.
No annexes.
No seal record.
No explanation for their removal.
Nathan requested a private conference before anyone searched further. The audit chair refused unless he identified a legal question that could not be discussed in the presence of the trust's counsel.
"Chain of custody," he said.
"That is a fact question," Rhea replied.
Celeste pointed at the archival folder. "How do we know your version was not assembled later?"
Rhea gave Ms. Vale the examiner's name, paper inventory, and seal log.
"Test it," she said. "Independently."
The audit chair added authentication to the review order. My father disliked that answer because it offered no argument to defeat—only a process he could not control.
"Old migrations were imperfect," Nathan continued. "We consolidated three systems after Helena's death."
"Annex A and Annex B are missing too," the audit chair said.
"Which supports a scanning error."
"Or a decision," I said.
His gaze moved to me. "Do you have evidence of one?"
"I have evidence the complete agreement was here five years ago."
The board packet in front of me had a gray index tab labeled HISTORICAL RIGHTS. I remembered ordering those tabs myself before the first AURORA review. I remembered carrying the original corporate copy to legal after my mother died because Nathan had promised he would make sure no one confused grief with ownership.
The archive lobby had smelled of dust and new carpet. Nathan had signed the intake screen while I waited. He had kissed my forehead and told me to go back to the laboratory; he would take care of the paper.
For years, I remembered the kiss more clearly than the receipt.
That had been my mistake.
"I delivered thirty-one pages to the controlled archive," I said. "The receipt should carry my employee number."
Nathan folded his hands. "A personal memory is not a record."
"Correct. Search the record."
Ms. Vale entered my old employee number.
The archive took longer this time.
Celeste paced behind her chair, the crown now resting beside a water glass. Without it, she looked younger and more dangerous. The ceremony had been planned around applause. The meeting had no script she could memorize.
"Even if a complete copy once existed," she said, "Evelyn had access. She could have removed it."
"I could have," I agreed.
She paused, surprised.
"That is why access logs exist."
The audit chair ordered an immediate legal hold over the license files, board minutes, archive histories, and system migrations. Nathan objected to the scope. Rhea narrowed patient material out of the first collection, removing his best excuse.
"The hold also needs duplicate deletion logs," I said.
Nathan's voice sharpened. "You are not directing our systems team."
"No. The board is deciding whether to preserve evidence. I am telling it what can disappear during ordinary cleanup."
The audit chair added deletion logs. Nathan wrote something on his legal pad and turned the page before anyone could read it.
Ms. Vale's tablet chimed.
She read the result without speaking.
"What?" my father demanded.
"The receipt exists."
She mirrored the archive index to the board monitor.
Date received: five years and nine months earlier.
Pages: thirty-one.
Delivered by: Evelyn Sterling.
Verified by: Records Control.
Nathan did not look at me.
"Open the custody history," I said.
Ms. Vale hesitated. "The history includes legal department users."
"The chair has ordered the hold," Rhea said. "Display metadata only. Do not open any privileged content."
The first entries were routine: annual verification, storage transfer, digitization check.
Then came the week of the accident.
The complete file had been checked out the morning my laboratory access was suspended.
It had not been checked out by me.
My father leaned closer to the screen.
"Who was the custodian?"
Ms. Vale scrolled to the final field.
Nathan stood very still.
The screen displayed an employee identifier, a department, and a status.
Custodian: N. Cole, Office of General Counsel.
Status: Not returned.