Chapter 15
Present Day
Gemma
I must have been mad. What I was about to do could get me into serious trouble. And I'm not talking 'get fired' trouble, I'm talking real trouble, police trouble.
But only if I got caught. And that wasn't going to happen.
I walked confidently into the building, my bag slung over my shoulder. There was a single security guy at the door to whom I flashed my I.D. before continuing on through towards the lifts.
I stepped inside and pressed the button for the 4th floor. I'd been here once on a Sunday morning before, and it was like a ghost-office, no one around. I hoped to God that today would be the same.
The lift pinged and opened and I was greeted with a sight that brought a smile to my face. There was no one at the main reception desk in front of me.
I walked straight on past the desk and down towards the two double glass doors that led onto the main office floor. I knew there were cameras downstairs and that I'd have been clocked coming into the building. But once inside, there were none. What I was about to do, therefore, wasn't going to be recorded.
I continued through the double doors, my outer confidence belying how I was feeling inside. Inside, my heart was racing, my mouth dry, my mind running at 100 miles per hour.
I glanced quickly round the office as I entered and saw no movement. We'd only just gone to print with the latest magazine at the end of the previous week, so I doubt anyone had any urgent work to get done. If it was two or three weeks later, they'd be people here, their deadlines forcing them to work on a Sunday. Today, thankfully, the place was silent.
I walked towards my desk and sat for a few moments, gathering my thoughts and scouting the place out. I waited to see if anyone would come, if anyone was already there, but the office stayed as it was: eerily quiet.
After several minutes I'd gathered my nerves sufficiently to stand and start moving off away from my desk, and down the corridor to the office I'd visited on so many occasions over the last couple of weeks.
I held my breath as I walked forward, straining my eyes to see if anyone was inside. I could make out the shape of her desk in the corner of the room but no one was behind it. I kept on going, my breathing now growing faster and faster, until I reached the door. I looked through the glass to see an empty space. She wasn't inside.
Now was the moment of truth. I reached for the door handle and turned it, praying for it to be unlocked. Or was I praying for the opposite? I couldn't quite tell anymore. Part of me wanted the door to be locked so I could just turn around and forget I'd ever been there. The other part wanted to keep on going, keep digging as she'd so often told me to do.
“You've got to be ruthless, Gemma, if you want to succeed in this business.” Was this ruthless enough for you Mrs Banks?
I turned the handle and heard the door click and glide open. F*ck it, there was no going back now.
Slowly I walked in, carefully shutting the door behind me. I looked at the computer sitting lifeless on her desk. I'd never get into it, not without the password. I'd had enough trouble breaking Cade's code, so there was no way I'd be able to work out what Martha Banks' secret word might be. Probably kitten-killer or something like that.
The room was fairly bare, barring the desk and a set of sofas sitting opposite each other with a glass coffee table in the middle. That was where I'd sat when she'd first asked me to betray Cade.
The only other point of interest was a tall filing cabinet lined up against the far wall. I walked towards it and opened up the highest drawer. Inside were folders lined up alphabetically with surnames and initials.
Albert, B
Ansbro, L, S
Aster, T
I searched quickly through the files, hoping they'd be one marked Banks, M. Use your head Gemma. Why the hell would she keep a file on herself?
There wasn't. There was a Banks, F, but on closer inspection it was someone totally unconnected to her.
I stood for a moment, thinking, before opening the second drawer up and looking through the lettered sections.
L, that's what I was looking for.
My curiosity was now spilling over as I flicked through the names, searching for one in particular. Yes, there it is.
Logan, C.
My heart rate quickened further as I carefully pulled the file from the drawer. Was it Cade? Crash. No, it was Charles, their father.
The file was bigger than the others, thick with papers and pictures. I walked over to the coffee table and opened it up, my eyes searching frantically. I had no idea what I was looking for, I was just looking, curious to find out more about this man who Cade called dad, this man who'd only recently been murdered.
I flicked through the files, many of them articles relating to business ventures that Charles Logan had been involved in. Martha Banks clearly had a heavy interest in this man, and this file had obviously been compiled over many years.
My eyes stopped on a smaller folder inside marked 'personal'. It was hidden at the bottom, the corners of the folder crumpled and creased. It looked old and worn, as if it might split with too much heavy handling.
I carefully pulled it out and opened it up to be greeted by an image at the top. There was a man and a woman in the picture. They were hugging and looking over at the camera, smiling wide and bright. I recognized the resemblance with Cade and his brothers immediately.
But it wasn't a young Charles Logan that really caught my eye. It was the woman he was hugging. She looked about 15 years younger than she did now, her hair wavy and dark, her smile pretty. She looked fresh and happy, her face unhindered by the numerous botox injections and facial plastic surgeries she'd had.
It was Martha Banks.
I moved the picture to the side and was greeted by another, one of the two of them kissing on the beach, and another of them eating dinner under the setting sun. They were candid photos, personal photos, photos that I doubt anyone else had ever seen.
Mingled in among the pictures of the two of them were letters, love letters sent from him to her. The more I read the more it became clear in my head what I was seeing.
Martha Banks and Charles Logan had had an affair long ago, one that seemed to go on for years going by the dates on the letters and images. I knew it was an affair because her husband had only died several years ago after a long marriage, and Cade's dad had been with his wife until she passed when he was a young teenager. So this must have been a secret romance, one involving two married people, one I doubt anyone ever knew about.
It would be something that Martha Banks would have kept hidden all her life, something she would be desperate to keep from coming to the public's attention.
I turned my mind back to the letters, my eyes skimming over them as the months and years went by. They spoke of their secret love, their secret relationship, hidden from everyone. Eventually, however, the letters grew more brief, more infrequent, before doubts clearly began to creep into Charles Logan's head.
He spoke of the guilt that was building, how he loved his wife and wanted to stay with her. He had a young family, and 5 boys who he needed to be there for. He couldn't leave them for her, he couldn't choose her over his wife, his family. He'd called a close to their relationship, ending their long affair, and breaking Martha Banks' heart.
I began to understand who she really was as I read through the letters and looked over the photos. She'd loved him dearly and he'd broken her heart. Even though it was a love built on betrayal and secrecy, she'd fallen deeply for him. It had given her the hard edge she possessed today, the ruthless and uncaring streak that had seen her rise to prominence in the years that followed.
But I knew she'd never gotten over it. I knew that from how she was so keen to find dirt on the Logan's, even to this day. She'd recruited me to try to dig up dirt on Cade, on Charles Logan's offspring. She clearly harbored a deep resentment towards them. Ever since he'd chosen his family over her, she'd wanted to see him suffer.
She was a broken woman, hurt beyond repair, and now lost in her own hardened shell. She'd lived alone with the truth for years, not telling anyone, keeping it all bottled up.
But now I knew. Now I, too, knew the truth.