Chapter 2 - The Witness in the Studio
The studio smelled of damp stems and chlorine-treated water when I let myself in at 6:00 AM the next morning. The glass door chimed softly, a sound that usually brought a sense of sanctuary. Today, it felt like an alarm bell.
I didn't turn on the overhead lights. I worked by the pale morning glow filtering through the front display windows, moving straight to Claudine’s desk in the back corner. Her laptop was shut, but her desk calendar lay open.
Yesterday’s date had a single note written in her sharp, slanted cursive: Final sign-off — 2 PM.
A drawer on the right side was unlocked. Inside was a ledger I had never seen before—a secondary set of books tracking cash payments and independent vendor commissions that never hit the main Bloom & Co. accounts. Flipping through the pages, I saw familiar names of local event planners, venues, and corporate clients who had paid thousands for floral installations over the last year.
The checks had been deposited into a separate account bearing a name I didn't recognize: Verde Holdings LLC.
"You're in early."
I spun around so fast I nearly knocked over a vase of hydrangeas.
Hannah stood by the kitchenette doorway, holding a ceramic mug of black coffee. She wasn't wearing her hotel blazer today; she had on a simple gray sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back into a practical clip. She looked at the open ledger in my hands, then at my face.
"I couldn't sleep," I said, my voice flat.
"Understandable." Hannah walked over, setting her mug down on the edge of a packing table. "Did you call Elena?"
"Not yet. I found the financial records instead." I held up the ledger. "They've been skimming corporate revenue for at least eight months. Long enough to fund a buy-out without using their own capital."
Hannah didn't look surprised. She pulled out a stool and sat down, resting her elbows on her knees. "Thatcher isn't smart enough to pull off a corporate diversion like that on his own. He's good with client relations and he looks great in a suit, but financial engineering isn't his wheelhouse."
"Claudine," I said.
"She used to manage accounts for a commercial real estate firm in Charlotte before she joined you," Hannah said quietly. "She left under a cloud—something about missing disbursement funds, though nothing ever made it to court because the firm settled quietly."
I stared at her. "How do you know that?"
Hannah met my gaze without flinching. "Because she was married to my brother for four years before she took him for everything he had and disappeared into the floral design scene. She targets businesses that are scaling up, gets close to the owners, and dismantles them from the inside."
The studio seemed to grow colder. The familiar surroundings—the racks of ribbons, the buckets of roses, the corkboard covered in mood boards—suddenly felt like a stage set built by strangers.
"You knew who she was when she applied here," I said.
"I didn't know until she walked into your studio six months ago," Hannah corrected gently. "By then, you had already made her a partner. I tried to warn you in subtle ways, but you were so proud of the partnership. You thought you were building an empire together."
"Why didn't you just tell me outright?"
"Because people don't believe warnings about their friends until they see the knife in their own back," Hannah said. She reached out and touched the corner of the ledger. "If you go to the police right now, they'll call it a civil dispute over partnership shares. You need proof of the forgery and the systematic asset stripping. And for that, we need to know where Verde Holdings' bank accounts are registered."
Before I could answer, the front door chimed.
May you like
Thatcher stepped inside, holding two paper cups from the local bakery and wearing his usual morning smile.
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