Chapter 4: The Corner Booth
The diner was nearly empty at this hour, save for a truck driver nursing a mug of black coffee at the counter and the cook reading a grease-stained newspaper behind the pie case. I slid into the corner booth near the jukebox, the red vinyl cracked and taped over with gray duct tape.
A few minutes later, the bell above the door jingled, and Marcus shook the rain from his broad shoulders before sliding into the seat opposite me. Marcus had been the head estate groundskeeper for twelve years before Clara quietly edged him out last spring on a trumped-up charge of insubordination. His face was weathered from decades under the sun, his hands calloused and stained with earth, but his eyes were sharp and steady.
“You look like you just went twelve rounds with a freight train, Isabella,” Marcus said quietly, resting his large palms flat on the formica table.
“She found out, Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Julian knows about Maya. He saw us in the foyer tonight before she threw me out.”
Marcus didn't look surprised. He leaned back against the cushion, exhaling a slow breath through his nose. “It was only a matter of time. That house isn't built to keep secrets; it's built to bury them. Clara has been auditing the payroll accounts for the last three months. She wasn't just looking for misplaced inventory; she was looking for the discrepancy in the private stipends Julian set up after his mother passed.”
“The stipends were supposed to be untraceable,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.
“Nothing is untraceable when you hire forensic accountants to comb through the pantry receipts,” Marcus replied, nodding toward the cardboard box between us. “What’s in the box?”
“Just what I could grab before the guards escorted me to the service lane.” I reached inside and touched the manila folder. “And the proof.”
“Proof won't save you if Julian decides to close ranks,” Marcus warned, leaning forward, his voice dropping an octave. “He’s a businessman first. His name is tied to half the commercial real estate downtown, and Clara’s family holds the controlling shares in the shipping conglomerate. If a scandal breaks before the annual charity gala next week, the board will tear him apart—and they’ll destroy you and Maya to keep the stock price stable.”
“I didn't ask for their money, Marcus,” I said, my voice hardening. “I didn't ask for their name. But I won't let them treat my daughter like a piece of garbage to be swept under the rug.”
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Marcus studied me for a long moment, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the silver stubble on his jaw. Finally, he reached into his heavy canvas jacket and pulled out a small, flat flash drive, sliding it across the table.
“Backups of the estate server logs,” Marcus said softly. “Everything Clara deleted from the household terminal regarding the payout records and the security footage from the night she searched your quarters. Use it before they wipe the cloud.”
