Chapter 3: The Coffee Shop Across Town
The rain had picked up by midnight, turning the asphalt outside the twenty-four-hour diner into a slick, mirror-like sheet that reflected the neon amber sign of an all-night laundry. I sat in the corner booth, the cracked vinyl squeaking softly every time I shifted. A mug of lukewarm black coffee sat between my hands, my palms wrapped around the ceramic to soak up whatever heat was left in it.
Arthur slid into the opposite side of the booth without making a sound. He had shrugged off his suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean muscle and the fading edge of ink near his wrist. He didn't order coffee. He simply pulled a manila folder from beneath his arm and laid it flat on the formica table.
“You shouldn't have come here,” I said, looking out the rain-streaked window at the empty street. My uniform dress was gone, replaced by an oversized gray hoodie and faded denim jeans, but the cut on my cheek still throbbed like a dull beacon. “If Leo finds out I’m sitting with you—if he even thinks I’m talking to someone asking questions—my apartment won't be the only place that gets turned upside down.”
“Leo already knows you were the one standing closest to Vanessa when she lost her temper,” Arthur replied evenly. He didn't raise his voice; his tone had the flat, dangerous certainty of a surveyor measuring a foundation before a demolition. He tapped a finger against the corner of the manila folder. “He thinks you’re just another quiet girl who will take a cash envelope and sign a nondisclosure agreement by sunrise.”
I looked down at the folder. The tab was blank, handwritten in pencil. “I didn't take any money from him three years ago when I worked at his downtown brokerage, and I’m not taking it now.”
“I know,” Arthur said softly. The hardness in his expression softened by a fraction, replaced by a strange, heavy respect. “That’s why I’m here. Most people fold when the pressure gets heavy. You took a glass to the cheek and kept pouring water.”
He opened the folder. Inside were photocopies of corporate bank statements, wire transfers routed through shell companies in the Caymans, and employee termination letters bearing signatures that looked agonizingly familiar. My breath hitched in my throat. I reached out, my fingertip tracing a signature near the bottom of a 2021 severance agreement—my own signature, forged with a slight slant I had stopped using after I left his firm.
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“I never signed this,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I refused their severance package. I walked out with nothing because I wouldn't cover up the missing charity funds.”
“They filed it anyway,” Arthur said, his eyes searching my face for any sign of doubt. “They needed a paper trail to close the audit before the board meeting. They used your name because they thought you had vanished into the service industry where nobody would ever look twice.” He leaned back, the shadows of the diner booth falling across his sharp jawline. “I’ve been tracking those wire transfers for fourteen months. Every single one leads back to Leo’s personal accounts. But I need the primary source document—the physical ledger that was kept in his private safe before the office moved.”
