Chapter 4 - The Silver Key
The bakery was dead quiet.
Even the police officers seemed to stop breathing.
Marcus stepped toward me, his eyes locked on the deposit slip in my hand.
"I don't know what that is," he said smoothly. "But a piece of paper from a dead man doesn't invalidate a judge's order."
I backed up a step.
"My father paid you one hundred and forty thousand dollars," I read from the slip. "The exact amount my brother supposedly lost in your firm this year."
"A coincidence," Marcus snapped.
"No," I said, my mind racing. "Ryan didn't lose your money this year. He lost it nine years ago. Dad paid you back to keep Ryan out of prison. But you came back, didn't you? You blackmailed Ryan."
Marcus looked at the officers. "This woman is hysterical. I'd like her removed so my men can begin the repossession."
The younger officer looked uncomfortable. "Ma'am, unless you have proof of extortion, the lien is valid."
I looked at the silver key in my hand.
It wasn't a door key. It was a safe key.
"Denise," I said, turning to my manager. "Where is Dad's old floor safe?"
Denise blinked. "The one under the floorboards in the pantry? It hasn't been opened since he passed. We stacked the extra flour pallets over it."
"Help me move them."
I marched into the back pantry. Denise followed.
Marcus started to follow, but the older officer held up a hand. "Let her look, Mr. Thorne."
Denise and I shoved eighty-pound bags of flour aside until we exposed the wooden trapdoor. I pulled it open.
The old iron safe was covered in dust.
My hands shook as I inserted the silver key.
It turned with a heavy click.
I pulled the heavy door open.
Inside was a stack of cashier's checks. All canceled. All made out to Marcus Thorne.
But there was something else.
A thick manila envelope.
I pulled it out and opened the clasp.
Inside were photographs.
Not of Ryan. Not of the bakery.
They were photographs of Marcus Thorne sitting at a table with three men I recognized from the local news. Men who had recently been indicted for illegal gambling operations.
And attached to the photos was a handwritten letter from my father.
If Marcus comes back for more money, take this to the FBI. He didn't invest Ryan's money. He used Ryan to launder it.
I closed my eyes.
My father hadn't died fighting with Ryan over a simple bank loan.
He had died trying to protect our family from a mobster.
"Well?" Marcus's voice echoed from the doorway. "Did you find anything interesting?"
I stood up, holding the envelope.
I walked out of the pantry and handed the envelope directly to the older police officer.
"Officer," I said calmly. "I'd like to report an extortion ring. And I have the evidence right here."
Marcus lunged for the envelope.
The younger officer grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall.
"Hey! Back off!" the officer barked.
The older officer opened the envelope. He looked at the photos. Then he looked at the canceled checks.
He looked up at Marcus.
"Mr. Thorne," the officer said, his tone entirely changed. "I think you need to come down to the station."
"This is a setup!" Marcus yelled as they cuffed him. "That old man was crazy!"
As they dragged Marcus out through the broken glass doors, I slumped against the bakery counter.
We were safe. The ovens were safe.
But then a black Mercedes pulled up to the curb.
My mother, Ryan, and Vanessa got out.
They walked through the shattered door, looking horrified.
"Caroline," Mom gasped, looking at the glass. "What happened?"
I looked at the three of them. The family that had bled me dry.
"Marcus is going to prison," I said.
Ryan's face went gray. "What?"
"Dad kept records, Ryan. He kept everything."
Vanessa immediately stepped away from Ryan.
"I didn't know," Vanessa said quickly. "Caroline, I swear, I didn't know he was mixed up in anything illegal. I just wanted to run a bakery."
"You collected fifty-eight thousand dollars using my forged signature," I reminded her.
"That was your mother's idea!" Vanessa shrieked, pointing at Mom.
Mom gasped. "How dare you!"
"Stop it!" I yelled.
They all froze.
"The fifty-eight thousand dollars," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "Where is it?"
Ryan looked at the floor.
"Ryan," I warned. "Where is the deposit money?"
"I gave it to Marcus," Ryan whispered. "Yesterday. As a down payment to stop him from taking the equipment."
The room spun again.
"You gave Marcus Thorne fifty-eight thousand dollars of stolen wedding deposits?"
Ryan nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I was trying to save your bakery, Caroline."
"No," I said, the final piece of my heart breaking. "You were trying to save yourself."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
"What are you doing?" Mom asked, panicking.
"I'm calling the police," I said. "Again."
But before I could dial, Aunt Susan walked through the broken doors.
She looked at my mother, then at me.
"Don't call the police yet, Caroline," Aunt Susan said softly.
"Why not?" I cried. "They stole fifty-eight thousand dollars!"
May you like
Aunt Susan reached into her purse.
"Because," Aunt Susan said, pulling out a folded blueprint. "They can't steal money from a business that doesn't belong to them. And Margaret... the building doesn't belong to you, either."
