Chapter 2 - THE MILLION-DOLLAR DEBT
Mallory's debt wasn't the kind of debt you accumulated by accidentally overspending on clothes.
It was deliberate.
Massive.
And carefully hidden.
She had convinced three private lenders that she was the future CEO of a growing hospitality company.
My company.
She had used my bakery's name.
My photographs.
My financial history.
Even old interviews I'd given to local newspapers.
According to the documents the police recovered, Mallory had told lenders she was preparing to acquire my bakery chain from me.
She claimed I was “financially unstable.”
She claimed I was “desperate to exit the industry.”
And most disturbingly, she claimed I had agreed to transfer ownership to her.
The lenders gave her nearly one million dollars.
Mallory spent it.
Luxury apartment.
Designer furniture.
A new Mercedes.
Private vacations.
Expensive jewelry.
And a failed restaurant.
Then the lenders came looking for their money.
Mallory panicked.
My parents panicked with her.
And suddenly, they remembered they had another daughter.
Me.
They showed up at my bakery six weeks earlier.
I remembered that meeting perfectly.
My mother had walked through the front door wearing a beige coat and an expression of moral superiority.
My father followed behind her.
Mallory wasn't with them.
My mother placed a folder on my counter.
“Your sister needs help.”
I didn't open it.
“No.”
She blinked.
“You don't even know what we're asking.”
“I know.”
My father leaned forward.
“You have the resources.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I finally understood how little they knew me.
“You haven't spoken to me in four years.”
“That doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me.”
My mother slammed her palm on the counter.
“She is your sister!”
“And?”
My father stared at me.
“You're going to let her lose everything?”
“No.”
His face softened.
For a second, he looked relieved.
Then I finished my sentence.
“She can lose everything without taking mine.”
My mother's expression hardened.
“You've become cruel.”
“No,” I said. “I've become unavailable.”
That sentence ended the conversation.
Or so I thought.
Two days later, they returned with a lawyer.
Then another.
Then a letter.
Then threats.
Finally, my father said the sentence that revealed everything.
“Sell the bakery.”
I stared at him.
“You're serious.”
“It's the only solution.”
“No. It's the solution that benefits Mallory.”
He pointed toward the bakery.
“You can rebuild.”
I looked around.
The custom display cases.
The imported ovens.
The hand-painted walls.
The old oak counter I had salvaged from a demolished hotel.
Everything represented years of work.
He shrugged.
“You're young.”
I almost smiled.
“My sister is thirty-one.”
“You don't understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.”
My mother stepped closer.
“If you loved your family, you'd do this.”
I looked directly into her eyes.
“If you loved your daughter, you wouldn't ask her to destroy her life because your other daughter destroyed hers.”
She slapped me.
Right there in my bakery.
Then she walked out.
That was the last time I saw them before the attack.
Until tonight.
Now I sat in the police station watching surveillance footage of my father swinging a sledgehammer through my bakery.
The detective paused the video.
“There are four cameras inside.”
“I know.”
“You installed them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm a forensic auditor.”
He stared at me.
Then nodded slowly.
“Fair enough.”
The footage resumed.
My father destroyed equipment.
My mother smashed glass.
Then Mallory appeared.
She wasn't carrying a weapon.
She was holding a laptop.
She walked behind the counter.
Opened the office door.
Entered my private office.
And stayed there for eleven minutes.
I leaned toward the monitor.
“What did she take?”
“We're still determining that.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You're looking at the wrong thing.”
The detective frowned.
“What?”
“Zoom in.”
He did.
Mallory had opened the filing cabinet.
She pulled out a folder.
Then she smiled.
Not nervously.
Not desperately.
She smiled like someone who had finally found exactly what she wanted.
My blood ran cold.
“What was in that folder?”
I whispered.
The detective looked at me.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
I stood.
“Take me back to the bakery.”
“It's an active crime scene.”
“Then I need to see it.”
Twenty minutes later, we stood inside the ruins.
The smell of burnt wiring and flour filled the air.
My office had been destroyed.
But the safe remained.
I walked toward it.
My hands were steady.
The detective watched.
I entered the combination.
The door opened.
The folder Mallory had taken was missing.
But another document remained.
I pulled it out.
The detective leaned closer.
“What is it?”
I handed it to him.
His eyes widened.
It was a certified ownership statement.
Hearthstone Commercial Holdings.
The company that owned the building.
And beneath it was a list of secured creditors.
At the bottom was a clause.
A very unusual clause.
One that stated the property could not be transferred, pledged, sold, or encumbered by any member of my family without unanimous corporate authorization.
The detective looked confused.
“Why would you have this?”
I smiled faintly.
“Because I knew someday they'd come for it.”
He stared at me.
“You expected this?”
“No.”
I looked around the wreckage.
“I expected something worse.”
Before he could ask what I meant, his phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Detective Harris.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then he looked at me.
“Ms. Hayes…”
“What?”
“They found your sister.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“She was at the hospital.”
“Why?”
May you like
He swallowed.
“Because someone attacked her.”
