That helped.
She asked where every document came from, how I had handled the tea, who had access to my home and business records, and whether Thatcher had ever threatened me physically.
“No.”
“Controlled your money?”
“No.”
“Made you feel like your memory was failing?”
I looked down.
“Yes.”
She waited.
“For months.”
That answer was harder than all the others.
Bains made no promises.
She explained that the lab result, documents, electronic communications, financial records, and proposed business transaction would need to be examined independently.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“As little as possible.”
I gave a tired laugh.
“That’s not really my specialty.”
“I gathered that.”
Then she leaned forward.
“Do not tell them what you found.”
Over the next several days, investigators began doing what I could not. They preserved records, reviewed communications, and followed the money attached to the proposed acquisition.
I was not told everything.
That was intentional.
Bains told me only what I needed to know.
Meanwhile, I went to work.
Thatcher slept beside me.
Claudine worked ten feet from me.
Every morning I entered Bloom & Co. and watched her behave as if she were still my friend.
She brought me coffee.
She asked whether my headaches were improving.
She complimented a design I had sketched for a spring wedding.
Then, when she thought I was not looking, she photographed documents on her phone or asked employees questions she had no reason to ask.
Once, I found her at the front desk talking to one of our oldest clients.
“Leona’s been overloaded lately,” she said warmly. “If you need anything urgent, just come directly to me.”
I stood in the hallway and listened.
Months earlier, I would have interpreted that sentence as help.
Now I heard what it actually was.
Documentation.
A story being built one small piece at a time.
Leona is overwhelmed.
Leona forgets things.
Leona cannot manage the company she founded.
Claudine fixes everything.
The cruelest part was how plausible they had made it.
There was no dramatic collapse.
No public breakdown.
Just a hundred small moments designed to make other people slowly lower their expectations of me.
That was what Thatcher understood.
If he had tried to destroy my reputation all at once, somebody might have defended me.
Instead, he had tried to make people arrive at the conclusion themselves.
Fortunately, some of them refused.
Two longtime clients had already questioned why Claudine kept redirecting their calls.
My studio manager, Adeze, stopped me one afternoon while we were processing a shipment of roses.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” she said, “but Claudine has been acting like she owns the place.”
I looked up.
“What makes you say that?”
“She asked me for administrator passwords.”
“Did you give them to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Adeze shrugged.
“Because you hired me.”
It was such a simple answer that I nearly cried.
Instead, I said, “Thank you.”
A few days later, Detective Bains called me from a number I did not recognize.
“We found the transaction.”
I sat down at my desk.
“What does that mean?”
“It means there are communications beyond what you gave us. We’re still working.”
“Between Thatcher and Claudine?”
A pause.
“Among the people involved.”
I understood the boundary.
“What do you need from me?”
“For now, nothing.”
Then she asked a question that surprised me.
“When is your awards gala?”
“The fourteenth.”
“Are Thatcher and Claudine attending?”
“Yes.”
“And the Pinnacle representative?”
“He was invited months ago because Claudine wanted him there.”
Another pause.
“Do not change that.”
I looked at the calendar.
The gala was twelve days away.
Bloom & Co. had been nominated for Small Business of the Year by the Charlotte Business Women’s Association.
Until everything happened, I had planned to attend, accept whatever came, and go home.
Now the date sat at the center of everything.