Chapter 7 - THE POLICE REPORT
The corporate headquarters of Whitmore Patisserie was in chaos when Sophie and I walked through the glass doors.
Employees were whispering in small groups. Phones were ringing off the hook. Several people were packing cardboard boxes at their desks.
I walked straight past the receptionist and pushed open the heavy oak doors to Andrew’s corner office.
Andrew was pacing behind his massive desk, his tie loosened, his hair a mess. Vanessa was sitting on the leather sofa, biting her nails, her trench coat discarded on the floor.
They both froze when I walked in.
“Where have you been?!” Andrew yelled, storming toward me. “The investors are filing a lawsuit! They saw the video of that disaster last night, and they found out about the second set of books! We are ruined!”
“You are ruined, Andrew,” I corrected him calmly.
I placed the manila envelope on his desk.
“What is this?” he snapped.
“It’s a copy of the original loan agreement you signed twenty-two years ago,” I said. “The one where you used the company name and all intellectual property as collateral for my mother’s money. The one you defaulted on.”
Andrew stared at the paper. The remaining color drained from his face.
“She… she couldn’t have,” he stammered.
“She did,” I said. “Three months before she died, my mother legally transferred ownership of the Whitmore name, all recipes, and the original bakery lease into a trust. A trust controlled by me, for Sophie.”
Vanessa shot up from the sofa. “That’s a lie! Andrew owns the LLC! He showed me the paperwork!”
“Andrew owns a shell company,” I said, turning to her. “A company built on intellectual property he never legally possessed. When you took millions from those investors, Andrew, you sold them fraudulent shares. You committed corporate fraud.”
Andrew stumbled backward, hitting the edge of his desk. He looked like a man who had just stepped off a cliff and was waiting to hit the ground.
“Annie, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “If you show this to the investors… I’ll go to federal prison. You can’t do this to the father of your child.”
I looked at the man who had lied to me, cheated on me while my mother was dying, and tried to steal my childhood home.
“I didn't do this to you, Andrew,” I said. “My mother did.”
Before he could respond, the office doors swung open again.
Two men in dark suits walked in, followed by three uniformed police officers.
Andrew’s knees buckled.
“Mr. Whitmore?” one of the suits asked, flashing a badge. “I’m Detective Reynolds, Financial Crimes Unit. We have a warrant for your arrest on charges of wire fraud, embezzlement, and forgery.”
“No,” Vanessa gasped, backing toward the wall. “I didn't know! I swear, I just designed the marketing! He forced me to sign those notary papers!”
The second detective looked at her. “Vanessa Collins?”
“Yes!” she cried, pointing a trembling finger at Andrew. “He’s the one you want!”
The detective pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud and falsifying legal notary documents.”
Vanessa screamed as the officer pulled her arms behind her back. “You can’t do this! I’m a victim!”
Andrew didn't fight. He just stared at me with hollow, defeated eyes as they cuffed him.
“Annie,” he whispered as they led him toward the door. “What about the house? They’ll take the house.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out the velvet box. I popped it open, revealing my father’s silver watch.
Andrew gasped.
“They won’t take the house, Andrew,” I said quietly. “Because you never had the legal authority to leverage it. My mother secured the deed before she died. This is over.”
They led him out in handcuffs. The office was suddenly very quiet.
I turned to Sophie. She was watching the police cars down on the street through the large window.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” I asked, walking over and wrapping my arms around her.
She leaned into my side. “Is it really over, Mom?”
“The bad part is over,” I promised. “Now, we fix what’s broken.”
I looked around the lavish, cold corporate office. I hated this place. It wasn't a bakery. It was a factory of lies.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s go home.”
But as we turned to leave, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was Marcus, our head baker.
“Annie,” he said, his voice breathless. “You need to get down to the 4th Street bakery right now.”
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“Marcus, what’s wrong? I’m at the corporate office.”
“It’s not wrong,” Marcus said, laughing over the phone. “It’s a miracle. The investors just called me. They don't want Andrew. They want the real recipes. And they want to talk to the real owner.”
