Page 35

"The supplier changed three months ago," I say.

Theo snaps his fingers. "Good." He reaches for another file. "Who approved this?"

I study the document. "The merchant group route."

"Which one?"

I point. Theo hums and reaches for another paper, then another, the pace never slowing. Eventually Brock pushes a stack of documents toward him. Theo studies them, and his expression changes — the smile disappears completely. That gets my attention. Brock notices too.

"What?" Brock asks.

Theo doesn't answer immediately. He flips through several pages, then several more, the room staying silent except for the sound of turning paper. Finally he sets the documents down. "Well."

Nobody likes that word. Especially not delivered in that tone.

Theo points toward a series of entries. Brock moves first and I follow, my eyes settling on the paperwork — corporate leverage reports, financial statements, tax documentation. At first it looks ordinary. Then the pattern emerges, and once I see it I can't stop seeing it. The same businesses appear repeatedly, different names and different transactions but the same connections, the same routes, the same people benefiting.

My stomach tightens.

Theo pulls another file closer, then another, each one adding something new, each one making the picture worse. "Tax returns were falsified," he says quietly.

Brock's attention sharpens. "You're certain?"

"Very." Theo points again. "The numbers don't match. These don't either."

The evidence accumulates — fraud, not suspicion, not theory. Fraud. The realization makes my head spin. Theo continues following the paper trail through business ownership, corporate filings, financial transfers, the path twisting and branching before reconnecting, multiple businesses beginning to link together until the full shape of it becomes visible.

The sight leaves me cold.

Because this isn't one person. It isn't one complaint or one grudge. The scope stretches far beyond anything I imagined, and my breathing becomes uneven as I scroll through the paperwork — the names, the records, the connections. The room suddenly feels smaller. Much smaller.

Theo keeps talking. Brock asks another question. The words blur together, because one thought keeps repeating itself and drowning everything else out.

Why me?

I'm just a baker. Just a woman trying to keep her business alive. I don't own a corporation or control major investments or influence financial markets. I make pastries. I sell cakes. I remember customer birthdays and restock display cases and worry about catering orders. What possible reason could anyone have for dragging me into something like this?

The walls feel closer. My chest tightens, and air becomes difficult. Clearly, it has no relation with the room. I push away from the desk without saying anything. Neither man notices immediately, which is good, because I need out. Now.

I leave the office. The hallway feels cooler. I keep walking and push through the front door and step outside, drawing in a breath that doesn't help as much as it should. My lungs work harder, not easier, and the panic keeps building. My hands shake. I press them against my sides. Nothing helps.

Footsteps approach behind me. I don't need to turn around.

"June."

Brock's voice reaches me quietly. I keep my eyes fixed across the street. "I'm just a baker." The words leave before I can stop them.

He doesn't answer.

"I'm normal," I continue, my throat tightening. "I just want peace." The confession sounds pathetic. I hate that. I hate how helpless I sound, how small my voice has become.

Brock moves closer, still silent.

"I'm not important enough for this." The words crack on the way out, and now I'm crying, which makes everything significantly worse. I laugh once at myself. The sound breaks halfway through. "I don't understand any of it."

Brock steps up to me — close enough that I have to look at him, close enough that avoiding him becomes impossible. His expression carries something I don't often see on his face.

"You are more than that," he says.