Chapter 2 - The Folder Upstairs|
I didn't sleep that night.
At three in the morning, I sat on the edge of my narrow bed upstairs, staring at the framed photograph of my father beside the café's original espresso machine. He was smiling in the picture, one arm around me, flour on his sleeve from the blueberry muffins he had insisted on baking himself.
He had named the place Quinn's because he said a good café should feel like coming home.
Maureen had called it a sentimental mistake.
Two years after his funeral, she had turned that mistake into a business, a weapon, and the roof over my head.
Adrian Cole's warning kept circling my thoughts.
Someone has been using your father's name to steal from me.
I had no idea what that meant, but I knew exactly where to look.
The manila folder.
LARKSPUR HOLDINGS LLC.
Maureen kept it in the locked drawer of the desk in her bedroom. She told me it contained tax documents and property records, things I wasn't educated enough to understand. When I was nineteen, I had believed her. At twenty-six, I had learned that people who constantly reminded you how little you knew were often afraid of what you might discover.
At four fifteen, I heard the shower running in Maureen's bathroom.
At four seventeen, I stepped into the hallway.
At four twenty, I stood outside her bedroom door with a hairpin between my fingers.
It took me six minutes to open the desk drawer.
Inside were bank statements, property deeds, invoices, and the familiar manila folder. My hands shook as I pulled it free.
The first document transferred ownership of the café and apartment building to Larkspur Holdings. The date was three months before my father died.
The second was a power of attorney bearing his signature.
The third was a loan agreement.
I read the figures twice.
My father had supposedly borrowed four hundred thousand dollars from a private investment company to cover the café's debts. The agreement gave the lender a claim against the property if he failed to repay it.
But the signature looked wrong.
My father had always written the letter Q with a long, sweeping tail. The signature on the agreement ended abruptly, as though someone had copied it from a photograph.
I turned the page.
A wire transfer receipt showed that three hundred and eighty thousand dollars had been sent to an account under the name Larkspur Holdings LLC.
The transfer had been completed two days after my father's funeral.
My throat tightened.
If the café had been transferred before he died, why had he continued telling me it would be mine someday?
And why had Maureen moved money from the register every night while insisting the business barely survived?
I heard the shower stop.
I shoved the papers back into the folder, returned it to the drawer, and closed it just as footsteps approached.
Maureen emerged wearing a silk robe, her blond hair wrapped in a towel.
She stopped when she saw me.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“I was looking for the laundry detergent.”
“It's in the kitchen.”
“I know. I forgot.”
Her eyes moved to the desk.
“You've been asking questions lately.”
I forced myself to shrug.
“Adrian Cole asked me something last night.”
The change in her expression was immediate.
“What did he ask?”
“Why you take money out of the register.”
Maureen stepped closer.
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
She touched my cheek with two fingers, an imitation of affection that made my skin crawl.
“Men like Adrian Cole enjoy making people believe they're important. They ask questions because they want to find the weakest person in a room. Don't confuse his curiosity with kindness.”
“Why did you look frightened when he arrived?”
Her hand dropped.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she smiled.
It was the smile she used when she had decided to punish someone without leaving evidence.
“Tonight, you will apologize to Chelsea for embarrassing her.”
“I didn't embarrass her.”
“You made her look foolish in front of a customer.”
“She did that herself.”
Maureen's eyes hardened.
“You seem to have forgotten who owns this building.”
“No,” I said. “I think I'm finally beginning to understand.”
Her palm struck the desk.
“Get out.”
I left before she could see how badly my hands were trembling.
At seven, Chelsea came downstairs in a pale pink sweater, carrying a shopping bag from a designer boutique.
“Mother says you're covering my shift again tonight.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
Chelsea laughed as though I had told a joke.
“You can't refuse. You live here.”
“Then perhaps you should learn to work the counter without me.”
Her smile vanished.
She stepped closer and lowered her voice.
“Do you know what happens to girls who attract the attention of men like Adrian Cole?”
“No.”
“Neither do they. That's why their stories end badly.”
She brushed past me, leaving the scent of expensive perfume in the hallway.
I watched her go, then returned to the kitchen and opened my father's old recipe book.
A folded note slipped from the back cover.
It was written in his unmistakable handwriting.
Nora, if anything happens to me, ask Daniel Mercer about the blue ledger. Don't trust the papers Maureen gives you.
My father's death had been ruled a heart attack.
May you like
But the note was dated six days before he died.
And I had never heard of Daniel Mercer.
