Chapter 4 - THE CASHMERE COAT
I backed away from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Lily!” Greg shouted again, rattling the doorknob. “Open the door. Charles just wants to talk.”
Mason stepped up behind me, wrapping a protective arm around my waist. He pulled me toward the back of the house.
“We aren’t answering,” Mason whispered, his eyes darting toward the kitchen window. “Charles didn’t send men in suits at eleven at night to negotiate.”
“They know Jonathan gave me the watch,” I breathed. “Greg must have called Charles the second I left the restaurant.”
The pounding stopped.
Through the thin walls, we heard a heavy, sickening crack. One of the men in suits had kicked the front door. The wood splintered around the deadbolt.
“Back door,” Mason urged, grabbing the metal lockbox from the bedroom and shoving it into my arms.
We ran through the kitchen and slipped out the back door just as the front door gave way with a violent crash.
The cold night air hit us as we scrambled over the chain-link fence in our tiny backyard. My cheap work shoes slipped on the damp grass, but Mason grabbed my hand, pulling me into the dark alley behind our duplex.
We ran. We didn’t stop until we reached the 24-hour diner three blocks down the street, slipping into a booth in the very back, hiding behind a greasy menu.
I was shaking uncontrollably. My chest heaved as I clutched the lockbox to my chest.
“They broke into our home, Mason,” I sobbed quietly, the reality of the violence crashing over me. “Over a photograph and an old watch.”
“Not just a photograph,” Mason said, his face pale. He ordered two black coffees from a tired waitress just to secure the booth.
When she walked away, he pulled the heavy silver pocket watch out of my purse.
“Lily, Jonathan Calder didn’t just give you this to prove he knew my father,” Mason said, turning the watch over in his hands. “He gave it to you because it’s a key.”
I stared at him. “A key? To what?”
Mason pressed his thumbnail against a tiny, almost invisible seam on the side of the watch casing. He pushed hard.
With a soft click, the back plate of the watch popped off.
It wasn’t a solid piece of metal. It was a hollow compartment.
Tucked inside, folded into a tight square, was a heavy piece of cardstock.
Mason used a butter knife from the table to carefully pry it out. He unfolded it.
It was a baggage claim ticket from the Greyhound bus terminal downtown. The date stamped on it was from three months ago—the exact day of the archive fire.
“Jonathan has evidence,” Mason whispered, his eyes widening. “He knew Charles set the fire. He secured the proof before the building burned, and he hid it at the bus station.”
“But why wait three months?” I asked, trying to wrap my mind around a billionaire founder using bus station lockers. “Why didn’t Jonathan just go to the police?”
“Because Jonathan doesn’t control the company anymore,” Mason realized, the pieces clicking into place. “He handed the CEO title to Elias years ago. Charles Price has Elias convinced that Jonathan is suffering from dementia. Charles has the board in his pocket. If Jonathan came forward without undeniable proof, Charles would have had him institutionalized.”
Jonathan needed a proxy. He needed someone on the inside who Charles couldn’t see coming.
He needed us.
“We have to get to the bus terminal,” I said, standing up. “Before Greg and those men figure out we’re gone.”
We walked the two miles to the downtown terminal to avoid being spotted in our car. The station was desolate, smelling of stale coffee and floor wax. A few people slept on the hard plastic benches, waiting for early morning departures.
We found the bank of rusted metal lockers near the restrooms.
Locker 814.
Mason slid the ticket into the slot. The heavy metal door popped open with a loud clack.
Inside the locker sat a thick, pristine black cashmere coat.
It looked completely out of place in the grimy bus station. I reached in and pulled it out. The wool was incredibly soft, smelling faintly of expensive cedar cologne.
“It’s Jonathan’s,” I said.
I dug my hands into the deep pockets.
My fingers brushed against a thick, leather-bound ledger. I pulled it out, bringing it under the harsh fluorescent lights of the terminal.
I opened the first page.
It wasn’t a record of Calder Hospitality’s profits. It was a detailed, handwritten log of extortion.
Names of city inspectors, building commissioners, and fire marshals. Next to each name were dates and massive dollar amounts. Charles Price hadn’t just embezzled money for the foundation of The Meridian Room. He had bribed every single safety official in the city to ignore the structural failures of a dozen different properties.
He was risking thousands of lives every day to line his own pockets.
“Mason,” I breathed, staring at the numbers. “This is a federal crime.”
But as I turned to the back of the ledger, a loose piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
Mason picked it up.
It was a faded, folded piece of stationery. A handwritten letter.
As Mason read it, his face went completely rigid. The color drained from his lips.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer.
Mason slowly looked up at me. His eyes were filled with a profound, earth-shattering horror.
“Lily,” Mason whispered, his voice cracking. “Charles didn’t just embezzle money. This letter… it’s a confession from your mother.”
The world stopped spinning.
“My mother?” I choked out. “My mother died of cancer five years ago. She was a maid at the Calder Hotel. She didn’t know Charles Price.”
“She did,” Mason said, turning the letter toward me.
I recognized her delicate, looping handwriting instantly.
The letter was dated twenty-five years ago.
May you like
Jonathan, it read. I can’t keep the secret anymore. Charles Price knows the baby isn’t my late husband’s. Charles threatened to tell Elias the truth if I didn’t help him alter the supply invoices. But I won’t let him blackmail me anymore. You have to protect Lily. Because she is Elias’s daughter. She is your granddaughter.
The ledger slipped from my hands, hitting the linoleum floor with a heavy thud.
