Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO CAME TO MY DOOR KNEW TOO MUCH
I stared at Thomas Whitaker's signature.
Seven years earlier, he had witnessed a preliminary agreement concerning Knight's Table.
Yet when he'd arrived at Lauren's house, he'd spoken as if he knew little about my restaurant's sale.
That didn't make him dishonest.
But it made him someone who owed me an explanation.
“Ryan, did you know Thomas worked with Dad?”
“No. Lauren always said Heritage discovered her through a business networking event.”
I took out Thomas's card.
“Then it's time I asked him some questions.”
Ryan reached for his coat.
“I'll drive.”
I shook my head.
“First, we're getting your daughter some lunch. Then you're going to tell me everything you know about the financing.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Mom, there's something else.”
I waited.
“When Lauren began the food project, she said the first investors were asking for proof of our family's connection to the recipes.”
“Our connection?”
“Yes.”
“Ryan, I am your connection.”
“I understand that now.”
He lowered his head.
“She asked me to sign a statement saying you had authorized us to manage the family food business.”
I felt a chill.
“Did you?”
He nodded.
My heart dropped.
“Why?”
“Because I thought you wanted us to succeed.”
“Without asking me?”
He rubbed his face.
“I was stupid.”
“No, Ryan. Stupid is forgetting to lock your car. You signed something involving your mother's property without telling her.”
He accepted the rebuke.
Then he whispered, “I didn't realize she would use it to claim ownership.”
I watched my son.
The boy I'd taught to tie his shoes.
The teenager who used to bring me wildflowers when I worked late shifts.
The man who had stood silent while his wife humiliated me.
I loved him.
But love couldn't erase what he'd done.
“You're going to correct that statement,” I said.
He nodded.
“Today.”
After lunch, Ryan stayed with Sophie while I arranged a meeting with Thomas at the Heritage offices.
His assistant offered me a private conference room.
I arrived carrying copies of the signed documents.
Thomas stood when I entered.
“Erica. I'm glad you came.”
“I'm not sure you'll be glad when I finish.”
He accepted that without protest.
I placed the old agreement on the table.
“Why is your signature here?”
Thomas studied it.
His expression softened.
“Walter asked me to witness the preliminary negotiations.”
“Then why didn't you mention it at Lauren's house?”
“Because I didn't know whether you remembered.”
I stared at him.
“That isn't an answer.”
He nodded.
“No. It isn't.”
He pulled out a chair.
“Walter helped me when my first company failed. Years later, when he considered selling the restaurant, he asked me to review his options.”
“And?”
“I introduced him to the people at Buckeye Dining.”
I felt anger rise.
“You helped sell my restaurant?”
“I helped him find a buyer. He made the final decision with you.”
“That part is true.”
Thomas leaned forward.
“But he had one condition. He wanted you to retain control over the recipes that made the restaurant special.”
“Appendix B.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you make sure I received it?”
He looked away.
“Walter kept the original. I was given a signed preliminary copy. After he died, I believed the final closing documents had included the appendix.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm not certain.”
I watched him carefully.
“Your company is negotiating licensing rights with Buckeye.”
His expression changed.
“Margaret told you.”
“Yes.”
Thomas sighed.
“Heritage was considering a partnership. But when Lauren's proposal arrived, I recognized the recipes and the photographs. That's why I requested a direct meeting.”
“Why show up at her house?”
“Lauren told us you would be present to discuss the event. When Dana called to confirm the signature and Lauren wouldn't allow her to speak with you, I became concerned.”
I studied his face.
For the first time, his story made sense.
But one question remained.
“Thomas, who profits from the licensing agreement?”
He opened a spreadsheet.
“Several parties. Heritage handles distribution. Buckeye claims certain brand rights. Lauren proposed operating the food line.”
“And me?”
He paused.
“According to their documents, you've already assigned your remaining rights.”
My stomach turned.
“I haven't.”
“I suspected as much.”
He slid a copy across the table.
There was my name again.
Erica Margaret Knight.
A signature beneath a statement of permanent assignment.
It was dated fourteen months earlier.
I looked at the signature.
It resembled mine.
But the final letter had a long, curling tail.
I never wrote my name that way.
Then I noticed the address.
The document claimed I had signed it at a retirement community in Dayton.
I'd never lived in Dayton.
“Who witnessed this?”
Thomas pointed to the bottom.
Lauren Knight.
And below her signature was another name.
A notary public.
I recognized it immediately.
Not because the woman was a stranger.
May you like
Because she'd been one of my oldest friends.
“Thomas,” I whispered, “this notary died three years before this document was signed.”
