Chapter 2 - THE LEATHER PORTFOLIO
I didn't let Mrs. Harper take another step.
Before she could reach the heavy double doors of the cafeteria, I stepped directly into her path. The gray cardigan she wore, which usually made her look like a gentle grandmother, suddenly seemed like a cheap disguise.
“Where are you going, Linda?” I asked, keeping my voice dangerously low.
She clutched a thick, brown leather portfolio tightly against her chest. “I need to return to my office, Mr. Callahan. This is a private administrative matter, and you are currently trespassing during school hours.”
“I’m not trespassing. I’m a parent, and I’m the primary donor to the fund you just drained,” I said.
I looked at the leather portfolio. Her knuckles were white from gripping it so hard. I reached out and firmly pulled it from her hands. She gasped, trying to snatch it back, but I stepped away.
I unzipped the leather case. Inside wasn't a list of student disciplinary records or cafeteria guidelines. It was a stack of architectural blueprints and a glossy brochure for a project titled Hawthorne Academy Elite Athletic Center.
I stared at the paperwork, my mind racing. “The Hawthorne Development Initiative,” I read aloud. “It’s a gym.”
“It’s a state-of-the-art wellness facility,” Mrs. Harper corrected, her voice trembling but defensive. “Our student-athletes need proper training grounds to compete with other prep schools.”
I looked at the three children sitting at the nearby table, the ones Claire had been trying to feed. “You starved fourteen eleven-year-olds to build a gym?”
“The board approved the reallocation of unused funds,” she snapped. “And your business partner, David Thorne, personally signed off on the construction bid. His company—your company—is the one building it!”
That was the answer I dreaded. The $187,500 hadn't just been stolen; it had been funneled directly back into my own company's accounts to pay off a fabricated debt, making it look like legitimate construction revenue. David was using my charity money to artificially inflate our quarterly profits.
But as I flipped to the second page of the blueprints, something didn't make sense. The construction firm listed wasn't Callahan & Thorne Builders. It was a subcontractor named Apex Solutions.
“We aren't building this,” I said, my brow furrowing. “I’ve never heard of Apex Solutions in my life.”
Mrs. Harper’s eyes darted nervously toward the exit. She knew she had said too much.
Then, Claire walked up beside me, clutching her blue drawing journal. She looked at the blueprint in my hands and pointed a small, trembling finger at the bold logo in the corner—a black triangle with a red line through it.
“Daddy,” Claire whispered.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“That’s the logo from the white truck,” she said.
I frowned. “What white truck?”
Claire looked up at me, her hazel eyes filled with a quiet, lingering fear. “The one that parks at the end of our driveway on Tuesday nights. When you’re asleep. The man inside always watches my bedroom window.”
A sudden, freezing chill ran down my spine. The company receiving my stolen charity money wasn't just a fake subcontractor. They were sending someone to my home in the middle of the night.
Before I could ask Claire another question, the cafeteria doors banged open.
May you like
Standing in the doorway was David Thorne. He was wearing his expensive tailored suit, perfectly pressed, but his face was flushed red with panic. And in his hand, he was holding a silver pocket watch.
My late father’s pocket watch. The one I kept locked in my home office safe.
