Chapter 7 - The Manager Who Had Been Watching Me
Walter Finch had never liked me.
For three years, he'd assigned me the worst tables, denied my vacation requests, and threatened to fire me whenever I asked questions.
I thought he was simply cruel.
Now I was beginning to understand that cruelty had a purpose.
The next afternoon, I returned to the Continental with an investigator and my attorney.
Walter stood behind the bar reviewing inventory sheets.
When he saw me, his expression changed.
"Katie."
"Mr. Finch."
His eyes moved toward the investigator.
"What's this?"
I placed a copy of the employment records on the counter.
"Did Levi Garrison tell you to hire me?"
Walter stiffened.
"I hired you because we needed staff."
"Did he tell you to keep me working here?"
Silence.
I leaned forward.
"Please don't lie."
Walter looked toward the empty ballroom.
Then his shoulders sagged.
"Yes."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"He said your father had stolen from the foundation."
I stared at him.
"What?"
Walter swallowed.
"He said you might try to recover money that wasn't yours."
The accusation struck harder than I expected.
My father had spent his life trying to protect the foundation.
Now Levi had turned him into the thief.
"Did you believe him?"
Walter looked down.
"At first."
"And afterward?"
His eyes filled.
"Afterward, I knew something was wrong."
I folded my arms.
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I needed the job."
I stared at him.
I knew that feeling.
The desperation.
The rent.
The constant fear of losing the only paycheck keeping you afloat.
But understanding his fear didn't excuse what he'd done.
"You watched me struggle for three years," I whispered.
Walter nodded.
"I'm sorry."
I looked away.
Then he reached beneath the counter.
My heart pounded.
But he only removed a small ledger.
"Levi paid me every month to report your schedule."
I stared.
"Report it to whom?"
"I don't know. The payments came through a consulting company."
He placed the ledger in front of the investigator.
The records contained dates, amounts, and handwritten notes.
Most concerned my movements.
My shifts.
My apartment.
My occasional visits to Dad's grave.
Then I saw an entry from six months earlier.
Young visited St. Mary's Medical Center.
My stomach tightened.
I'd gone there to collect my father's remaining medical documents.
Walter looked troubled.
"Levi became very interested after that visit."
"Why?"
"He believed you'd found something."
I shook my head.
"I only collected Dad's old patient records."
Walter swallowed.
"Then perhaps you should look at them again."
My heart began pounding.
That evening, I returned to my apartment.
I pulled a battered cardboard box from beneath my bed.
Inside were medical bills, discharge notes, and letters from Dad's physicians.
I searched for nearly an hour.
Then I found an envelope I'd never opened.
It was marked:
MICHAEL YOUNG — PRIVATE PATIENT CORRESPONDENCE.
Inside was a letter written six months before Dad died.
The physician stated that an anonymous benefactor had offered to pay for Michael's treatment.
But Michael had refused.
I stared at the name.
The benefactor was Vincent Graham.
My hands began shaking.
May you like
And beneath the letter, Dad had written a note.
Katie, the man offering to save my life is the same man who doesn't know his wife was murdered.
