Chapter 7 - The Storage Unit|
The storage facility stood behind a row of abandoned warehouses on the western edge of the city. Rust streaked the metal doors, and weeds pushed through cracks in the concrete.
Adrian insisted on driving me there himself.
I insisted on sitting in the passenger seat with the doors unlocked until we reached the entrance.
“You don't trust me,” he observed.
“I've known you for forty nights.”
“You've known my coffee order for forty nights.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “It isn't.”
He parked near the office. Two men in dark jackets remained by the SUV, far enough away that I could speak without feeling watched.
The brass key fit a lock on Unit 214.
Inside were several cardboard boxes, a metal filing cabinet, and an old wooden chair with a cracked leather seat. Dust covered everything except a rectangular patch on the floor where something heavy had recently been removed.
I stepped inside.
“This is where he kept his business records?”
“Maybe.”
Adrian examined the filing cabinet without opening it.
“Your father was careful. He wouldn't leave anything important in an obvious place.”
I ran my fingers along the underside of the wooden chair.
There was a small compartment beneath the seat.
Inside it lay a blue ledger wrapped in a plastic bag.
My hands began to shake.
“Daniel Mercer,” I whispered.
Adrian came closer.
The ledger contained columns of dates, company names, amounts, and handwritten initials. Several entries matched the transfers Evelyn had shown me. Others referenced payments to a shipping company owned by Adrian's legitimate business.
On the final page, my father had written a list of names.
Maureen Whitmore.
Daniel Mercer.
Victor Hale.
Adrian Cole.
I stared at the last name.
“Your name is here.”
Adrian's expression darkened.
“Let me see.”
He took the ledger, studying the entries without touching the ink.
“Victor Hale was my father's chief financial officer. He was supposed to oversee the company's books after my father died.”
“What happened to him?”
“He resigned eight months ago.”
“Did you know he was connected to Larkspur?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to ask questions before you decide what you believe.”
His answer irritated me because it was reasonable.
I took the ledger back.
The next page contained a note in my father's handwriting.
If anything happens to me, the person who benefits from the transfer is not necessarily the person who arranged it. Follow the signatures, not the money.
Below that was a photocopied bank authorization bearing Maureen's signature.
Beside it was another authorization.
Victor Hale.
Then a third.
Daniel Mercer.
“Daniel signed these?” I asked.
“Possibly. Or someone copied his signature.”
“Why would he help them steal money?”
Adrian examined the dates.
“These documents were created at different times. Some may be legitimate. Others may have been forged.”
I turned to the last page.
A single line had been written in red ink.
The original recording is with the person who was in the room when Quinn died.
My mouth went dry.
“Who was in the room?”
Adrian looked at me.
“Your stepmother says she was with him when he collapsed.”
I remembered the funeral. Maureen had stood beside me with one arm around my shoulders, telling everyone that my father had complained of chest pain and asked her to call an ambulance.
She had said the paramedics arrived too late.
She had said there was nothing anyone could have done.
I had believed her because I needed to believe her.
“What kind of recording?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
I turned another page.
There was a small envelope tucked into the binding. Inside was a photograph of my father standing outside the café with a man I recognized from an old newspaper article.
Daniel Mercer.
On the back, my father had written:
He knows who changed the final report.
A noise came from outside the storage unit.
Adrian moved immediately, placing himself between me and the open doorway.
One of his men appeared at the entrance.
“Someone's coming,” he said. “Black sedan. Two occupants.”
Adrian closed the ledger.
“Did they see us?”
“Possibly.”
I looked toward the driveway.
A black sedan had stopped at the far end of the facility.
The driver's window lowered.
A man in a gray suit lifted a phone and pointed it directly at us.
Then he smiled.
Adrian's face went cold.
“Get Nora into the vehicle.”
“What about the ledger?”
“Take it.”
I clutched the blue book against my chest and ran toward the SUV.
Behind us, the sedan's engine roared to life.
As we pulled away, my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
The message contained a photograph of the storage unit's open door, taken seconds earlier.
May you like
Beneath it were eight words.
PUT THE LEDGER BACK, OR YOUR STEPMOTHER WILL DIE TONIGHT.
