Chapter 4 - THE PASTRY CHEF BECAME THE TARGET
I laughed.
One short, broken sound.
Not because anything was funny.
Because my brain rejected the sentence.
“Me?”
Aaron’s voice came through weakly.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“He used your name.”
Silence.
Vincent moved immediately.
“Lena goes upstairs.”
I looked at him.
“Do not start.”
His jaw tightened.
“This is not negotiation.”
“Then you haven’t learned anything tonight.”
Nathan stared at us.
Everett looked like he wanted to disappear.
Vincent stepped closer.
“Someone involved in an attempted poisoning just named you as the next target.”
“I understand.”
“Then why are we arguing?”
“Because ‘upstairs’ where?”
He stopped.
“Guest wing.”
“Security outside.”
“No one enters without permission.”
Better.
“Fine.”
His expression suggested he hated the word fine now.
I went because refusing a reasonable safety measure for pride would be idiotic.
But before I left the kitchen, I looked at the photograph again.
One of them already knows.
Maybe it did not mean someone knew about poison.
Maybe someone knew a secret.
What secret could involve a pastry chef?
I had no Calder blood.
No hidden inheritance.
No murdered father.
I was Lena Brooks.
Thirty-one.
Grew up in Bellweather.
Community college culinary program.
Mother worked at the county library.
Father drove school buses until his heart attack.
No secret dynasty.
Nothing cinematic.
That was comforting.
Then I remembered my brother.
Evan.
Older by five years.
Dead four years.
Car accident.
He had worked at Duvall Development.
My stomach dropped.
Vincent saw my face change.
“What?”
“My brother.”
“What about him?”
“He worked for Duvall.”
Nathan straightened.
“What department?”
“Accounting.”
Silence.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“For how long?”
“Six years.”
“When did he die?”
“Four years ago.”
Nathan and Vincent exchanged a look I hated.
“What?”
Vincent asked:
“Did he ever talk about Calder business?”
“No.”
Then I remembered.
“One time.”
“What?”
I rubbed my arms.
“He said his company was paying twice for the same concrete.”
Nathan’s expression changed.
“Explain.”
“He complained at dinner.”
“He said invoices were being duplicated between Duvall and a subcontractor.”
“I didn’t care.”
“I was decorating a wedding cake.”
I hated myself for that memory.
Evan had laughed.
Told me numbers were less interesting than sugar.
Then he died six weeks later.
Single-car accident on wet highway.
Police ruled speed.
Evan rarely sped.
But grief had eventually forced me to accept things I did not understand.
Vincent asked:
“What subcontractor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I don’t.”
Nathan stepped forward.
“Did he keep papers?”
“No.”
“Laptop?”
“Company property.”
“Anything?”
My anger rose.
“He was my brother.”
“Not an evidence locker.”
Nathan stopped.
Good.
Vincent said:
“Enough.”
He looked at me.
“When Reed photographed you two weeks ago, maybe it wasn’t because you work here.”
I felt cold.
“You think Evan knew something.”
“Maybe.”
“And Reed thinks he gave it to me.”
“Maybe.”
“But he didn’t.”
“I believe you.”
That came too quickly.
“Why?”
Vincent looked at me.
“Because you had three years to use information against me.”
“You used tonight to stop me from eating.”
Fair.
Then I remembered another object.
Evan’s recipe box.
Ridiculous.
After he died, my mother gave me his kitchen things because he barely cooked and she could not bear seeing them.
Inside the old wooden recipe box were cards from our grandmother.
Takeout menus.
Receipts.
One flash drive.
I had assumed it was photographs.
Never opened it.
My stomach turned.
“I might have something.”
Vincent’s face changed.
“What?”
“At home.”
“No.”
I raised one hand.
“I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Someone else can.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if there is evidence, nobody touches it without you telling us exactly where.”
That surprised me.
He had learned faster than I expected.
I called my mother.
Did not tell her everything.
Only asked whether she still had the box in my old room.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t open it.”
“Lena.”
“Mom.”
Something in my voice worked.
She agreed.
Vincent sent two security men and a female attorney from his legitimate corporate office.
Not armed thugs tearing through my mother’s house.
Good.
The box arrived at two in the morning.
I opened it myself.
Flash drive.
Plain black.
No label.
We used an isolated computer.
Folders.
Family photos.
Tax forms.
Then one folder:
D-17.
Inside:
Invoices.
Photographs of shipping manifests.
Emails.
Spreadsheets.
I looked at Nathan.
“What am I seeing?”
He went pale.
Vincent understood first.
“Ghost billing.”
Duvall had been paying for concrete deliveries that never happened.
But Calder Concrete had also received legitimate payment for actual deliveries.
Someone inserted fake subcontractor charges between them.
Millions.
Over years.
Who owned the subcontractor?
A medical-services investment company.
That made no sense.
Until Nathan read the registration.
“Reed Medical Holdings.”
Silence.
Dr. Samuel Reed.
Not just doctor.
Investor.
Businessman.
He had used shell vendors tied to Duvall construction to siphon money.
Maybe Evan discovered it.
Maybe Duvall discovered Evan knew.
Maybe his accident—
I stopped.
“No.”
Vincent looked at me.
“What?”
“We don’t know what happened to Evan.”
Important.
“We don’t turn a crooked invoice into murder because it hurts.”
He stared at me.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
That mattered.
Then another file opened.
A recorded voice memo.
Evan.
My brother.
Four years dead.
I stopped breathing.
“Lena, if you find this…”
I covered my mouth.
He sounded annoyed.
Tired.
Alive.
“I might be paranoid.”
“I hope I am.”
He explained the duplicate billing.
Said a man named Samuel Reed had confronted him at a charity golf event.
Told him:
“Numbers can get people hurt when they belong to the wrong men.”
Then Evan laughed nervously.
“I told him I work for Duvall, not the FBI.”
A pause.
“But if something happens, give this to somebody who hates Reed more than he loves money.”
I almost cried.
Then:
“Don’t give it to Duvall management.”
“Somebody there is helping him.”
The recording ended.
Nathan whispered:
“Four years.”
Vincent looked furious.
Not explosive.
Focused.
Then the computer chimed.
A hidden file.
Recent date?
No.
Four years old.
Photograph.
Samuel Reed standing beside a man outside a private medical clinic.
The second man was immediately recognizable.
Nathan Calder.
Everyone looked at him.
Nathan went white.
“That is not what you think.”
Vincent stared.
“Then tonight would be a wonderful time to become specific.”
Nathan sat down.
“I was treated there.”
“For what?”
Silence.
Then:
“Addiction.”
Nobody spoke.
Nathan looked humiliated.
“Pain pills.”
“Eight years ago.”
“Reed treated me privately.”
Vincent’s face changed.
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you were becoming boss.”
“I was chief adviser.”
“I thought you’d remove me.”
Vincent looked hurt.
Not angry.
Maybe both.
Nathan continued:
“Reed has held it over me ever since.”
There.
Blackmail.
“He made you do what?”
“Nothing.”
“At first.”
“Then information.”
“What information?”
“Schedules.”
“Meetings.”
“Small things.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
Nathan’s eyes filled.
“I never gave him anything that could get you killed.”
Vincent looked toward Aaron’s empty chair in memory.
“Apparently you don’t control what information becomes.”
Nathan lowered his head.
Then the security chief entered.
“We found Reed.”
Vincent stood.
“Where?”
“Duvall County Medical Center.”
“What is he doing?”
The man looked confused.
“He walked into the lobby ten minutes ago.”
“Asked for police.”
Nathan frowned.
“He’s surrendering?”
“No.”
The security chief looked at me.
“He says someone tried to kill him.”
May you like
Then:
“And he says Nathan Calder ordered the poison.”
