Chapter 3 - The Art of the Performance
"Morning, ladies," Thatcher said, his voice bright and entirely unburdened. He walked over and placed one of the cups on my packing table, leaning in to drop a light, familiar kiss on the top of my head. "You're in early, honey. Couldn't sleep again?"
I forced my hands to stay flat against the table, beneath the cover of the open ledger. Every instinct screamed at me to pull away, to throw the coffee in his face, to scream about the hotel lobby and the forged signatures. But Hannah’s words from the night before echoed in my mind: If you confront them now, you learn whatever they choose to tell you.
"Just thinking about the Morrison installation," I said, keeping my tone level. "It's a big account."
"You worry too much," Thatcher laughed, tossing his car keys onto the desk just inches from Claudine’s ledger. "That’s why you need people like Claudine and me to handle the heavy lifting. Speaking of which, she’s running a bit late this morning—said she had some personal errands to wrap up first."
Personal errands. Yesterday, that would have sounded innocent. Today, I knew exactly what kind of errands required a morning detour.
"Did you find your cuff links?" I asked casually, watching his face.
Thatcher blinked, a micro-expression of confusion flashing across his features before he smoothed it over with a smile. "My cuff links? Why would I be looking for those?"
"You left one in the guest bath last week," I lied. "I thought you might be missing the pair."
"Ah. Must have." He didn't miss a beat, but his right hand unconsciously drifted to his left cuff, touching the silver button. It was a small tell, but a real one. "I'll look for it tonight."
"Make sure you do," I said. "We have that dinner with the regional suppliers on Friday. I want everything to look right."
"Always does, sweetie." He checked his watch, picked up his coffee, and gave us a casual wave. "I’m heading over to the warehouse to check the new shipment of vases. See you both later."
The door chimed behind him.
Hannah exhaled a long breath and looked at me. "He’s entirely comfortable lying to your face. That’s the scariest part of men like that—they believe their own performance."
"He didn't even hesitate about the cuff links," I murmured, my stomach twisting. I reached down and picked up the keys Thatcher had left behind on the desk. They weren't just his car keys; attached to the heavy brass ring was a small, titanium security fob—the kind used to access private storage facilities or commercial mailboxes.
"Recognize that fob?" Hannah asked.
"No. It’s new." I turned it over in my hand. "Thatcher doesn't rent storage units. All of our inventory is kept here or at the studio warehouse on 4th Street."
"Then it’s not for inventory," Hannah said, standing up. "It’s for whatever they’re keeping off the books."
I looked at the keys, then at the ledger, and finally at Hannah. For weeks, I had thought my exhaustion and brain fog were signs of my own failing strength—a personal inadequacy I needed to push through. Now I realized every system in my life had been systematically poisoned to keep me weak while they dismantled everything I had built.
May you like
"Let's find out what's in that locker," I said.
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