Chapter 3 - The Man Who Never Raised His Voice|
At eleven fifty-five that night, I was polishing the brass handles on the kitchen cabinets when a shadow fell across the doorway.
Adrian Cole stood there without his coat, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked less like a customer now and more like a man who had come to collect an answer.
“You weren't supposed to be working tonight,” he said.
“I wasn't.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because the dishes don't wash themselves.”
He looked at the overflowing sink.
“Is that what Maureen told you to do?”
“That's what she always tells me to do when she wants me out of sight.”
His jaw tightened.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we can talk without your stepmother listening.”
“I don't go anywhere with men I barely know.”
“Good.”
He stepped aside, leaving the decision to me.
“I wouldn't trust a man who didn't respect that.”
It was such an unexpected answer that I studied him for a moment. Men who wanted something from me usually reacted badly when I refused to give it to them. Adrian simply waited.
“Five minutes,” I said.
He led me into the small office behind the storeroom. The room smelled of old paper and coffee grounds. A single desk lamp illuminated a stack of receipts, and the window looked out onto the alley where his driver stood beside the black SUV.
Adrian closed the door but left it slightly open.
“You said you had a question about my father.”
“I have several.”
“Start with one.”
“Did your father ever do business with a company called Larkspur Holdings?”
My stomach tightened.
“I found documents with that name last night.”
“Where?”
“Maureen's desk.”
“Did you read them?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What did you find?”
“A loan agreement. A transfer of ownership. A wire transfer that doesn't make sense.”
Adrian's expression changed.
“What doesn't make sense?”
“The money went to Larkspur after my father's funeral. But the agreement says the debt was already secured against the building before he died.”
He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket and placed it on the desk.
It contained a list of bank transfers.
Every entry was dated within the last eighteen months. Several payments had been made to Larkspur Holdings from companies connected to Adrian's legitimate businesses.
“I've been losing money through a network of shell companies,” he said. “At first, I thought it was an internal problem. Someone had access to the accounts and knew how to hide the transfers inside ordinary operating expenses.”
“And you think Maureen is involved?”
“I know she is involved.”
“Then why haven't you stopped her?”
“Because I don't yet know who is directing her.”
He tapped the final entry.
“Your father's café has been listed as collateral for money that should never have passed through this company.”
I stared at the page.
“My father would never have agreed to that.”
“Perhaps he didn't.”
The words settled between us.
I remembered the note hidden in his recipe book.
Ask Daniel Mercer about the blue ledger.
“Do you know a man named Daniel Mercer?” I asked.
Adrian's eyes sharpened.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“My father left me a note.”
For the first time since I had met him, Adrian looked genuinely unsettled.
“What did it say?”
I repeated the message.
He was silent for several seconds.
Then he picked up his phone and sent a short text.
“Daniel Mercer was my father's accountant,” he said. “He disappeared three days before your father died.”
“Disappeared?”
“He was supposed to testify about missing money. The morning he was scheduled to meet my father, his apartment was found empty.”
I felt cold.
“Do you think he's dead?”
“I think someone wanted people to believe he was.”
Adrian walked to the window and looked toward the alley.
“Your father may have discovered something that connected the money to my organization. If he left you a message about Daniel, he probably knew he was in danger.”
“Are you saying my father was murdered?”
“I'm saying I won't tell you a comforting lie just because the truth is frightening.”
I looked down at my hands.
For two years, I had mourned my father while trying to keep his café alive. I had believed his death was an awful accident of the heart, a cruel coincidence that left me alone with a woman who treated every breath I took as a debt.
Now the ground beneath those memories was beginning to crack.
Adrian's voice softened.
“Nora, if you find anything else, bring it to me. Don't confront Maureen. Don't tell Chelsea what you've discovered.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't. Not yet.”
He reached into his pocket and placed a small card on the desk. There was no name on it, only a number.
“But if someone is using your father's death to steal from you, I want to know who.”
A noise came from the hallway.
We both turned.
The door moved slowly inward.
Chelsea stood outside, her phone raised, the camera pointed directly at us.
May you like
She had heard enough to know that something was happening.
And the smile on her face told me she was already deciding how to use it.
