Chapter 7 - Ledgers and Paper Trails
The morning light cut through the tall arched windows of the estate's private study, casting long diagonal beams across a polished mahogany desk that was twice the size of my entire apartment kitchen. I sat in a high-backed leather chair, my right arm encased in the heavy medical brace resting stiffly on a stack of unopened leather-bound ledgers.
The door pushed open quietly, and a middle-aged man in a gray waistcoat walked in, carrying a porcelain mug of black coffee and a thick manila folder.
"Mr. Gallow asked me to ensure you were settled," the man said, setting the folder down before me. His name was Marcus, and according to the brief introduction he had given me an hour earlier, he managed the day-to-day operations of Roman’s household and business fronts. "These are the accounts from the downtown restaurant where you used to work—The Gilded Palate."
I stared at the manila folder, my fingers twitching against the edge of the desk. "Why are those here?"
"Because Mr. Gallow owns the controlling interest in the property," Marcus said plainly, pulling a gold pocket watch from his vest to check the time. "The previous owner accumulated significant debts before skipping town last week. That's why the staff was stretched thin, and why you were working double shifts with a torn tendon."
The pieces clicked together with sudden, uncomfortable clarity. The frantic rushes, the missing kitchen staff, the owner's sudden disappearances—it wasn't just poor management. It was a sinking ship.
"And Roman bought it," I murmured.
"Mr. Gallow doesn't like loose ends," Marcus corrected smoothly. "He acquired the debt to protect his investments. Your employment contract was part of that restructuring. Now, open the third ledger. Mr. Gallow wants all discrepancies in the payroll highlighted by noon."
I reached out with my left hand, carefully sliding the heavy leather cover open. The pages were filled with neat columns of numbers, expenditures, and employee names. As I scanned the rows, my breath caught. Dozens of names I recognized—line cooks, dishwashers, fellow waitresses—had deductions listed next to their wages that didn't match standard tax withholdings. They were arbitrary fees, penalties imposed by the fleeing manager to skim cash off the bottom line.
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"These deductions," I pointed with my left index finger, looking up at Marcus. "They're fraudulent. The manager was pocketing half of the weekend tips."
Marcus glanced down at the page, his expression remaining completely neutral. "That is why you are looking at them, Paige. Mr. Gallow suspected as much. Bring him the highlighted pages when he returns from his morning meeting. He will want to know the exact figure."
