THE ALDER ROOM SECRETS

The steel door rattled violently in its frame.

"Daniel! Open this door!" Robert shouted from the kitchen.

I ignored him, my eyes locked on the framed photograph.

Answer one. Robert wasn't just trying to take over my company. He was selling it from the inside out.

"Daddy, why is that man yelling?" Sophie asked, shrinking back against the filing cabinets.

I knelt down in front of her. I took her small hands in mine.

"Because he's a bully, Sophie. And what do we do when we meet a bully?"

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her pink sweater. "We stand our ground."

"Exactly." I kissed her forehead. "You are so brave. I just need you to sit right here for two minutes while I find something."

I stood up and moved to Patricia's desk.

If Robert was working with our rival, there had to be proof beyond a photograph. The kind of proof that the board of directors couldn't ignore, no matter what bylaws they had passed.

I started opening drawers. Menus, vendor invoices, payroll sheets.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

The pounding on the door stopped.

"Daniel," Robert’s voice came through the heavy steel, muffled but calm. Too calm. "The police are three minutes away. When they get here, I’m showing them the video of you dragging a child into a restricted, dangerous area. Child Protective Services will be thrilled."

My chest tightened. He was going after Sophie.

I ripped open the bottom drawer of the desk. It was locked.

I grabbed a heavy bronze paperweight shaped like an anchor—a gift I had given all my managers five years ago—and smashed it against the cheap lock.

The wood splintered. I pulled the drawer open.

Inside was a single manila folder.

I opened it.

It wasn't a contract with the rival company.

It was a stack of property deeds.

I flipped through them, my confusion growing. These were the deeds to the land underneath six of our most profitable restaurants. Including The Alder Room.

But the owner listed on the deeds wasn't Mercer Hospitality Group.

It was a shell corporation called Elena Holdings.

He had used my dead wife's name to illegally transfer the real estate out of the company.

Suddenly, the phone on the desk rang.

It was an internal line. The front desk.

I picked it up.

"Mr. Mercer?" It was Patricia. Her voice was shaking violently. "I didn't call the police. He thinks I did, but I didn't."

"Patricia, what is going on?" I demanded.

"He's going to destroy the restaurant tonight," she whispered, terrified. "Look at the security monitors. Look at the private dining room."

I dropped the phone and spun toward the bank of security screens on the wall.

Camera four showed the VIP dining room.

It was packed.