The first was an invoice from a shipping company in Wilmington called Coastal Freight Solutions. Six padded crates, specialty foam inserts rated for fragile glass, climate-controlled transport to a P.O. box in Kill Devil Hills. The billing name was Pine Event Planning. Margot’s business address in Raleigh.
The second was a keycard log printout. Margot’s card. Three entries highlighted in yellow. Two were her normal access during setup. The third showed her card used at the service corridor door at 11:47 PM the night before the showcase.
“I didn’t order these crates.” Her vision narrowed. She gripped the back of the chair. “Someone used my business name. I have never ordered from this company. I’ve never heard of this company.”
“The invoice is dated ten days before the showcase,” Harker said. “Sent to our tip line this morning. Anonymous.”
Anonymous. The word landed like a trapdoor opening.
“And I was in my room at eleven forty-seven.” She pointed at the keycard printout, her finger steady even though her hands were cold. “On my balcony. I have a text to my mother timestamped at eleven twenty.”
“Keycards can be copied. Was your room locked that night?”
She’d been on the balcony. Writing lists. Drinking coffee. The door to the hallway...
“I don’t remember.” The words tasted like ash.
He wrote something in his notepad and closed it. His face gave nothing away. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Pine.”
He left. Measured, professional, writing in his notepad with a steady hand. He didn’t arrest her. Didn’t accuse her. But the questions had a direction, and she could feel where they were pointing.
Elaine waited until the outer door clicked shut. “I need you to step back from the expo.”
“Elaine.”
“Not permanently. Not publicly. But until this is resolved, I can’t have the lead coordinator as a suspect in the theft she’s supposed to be managing.” Elaine’s hands were flat on the desk, pressing hard. “Jolene will handle day-to-day. You’ll remain in an advisory capacity.”
“Advisory.” The word was a knife.
“I’m trying to protect you. And the resort.” Elaine’s voice cracked for the first time Margot had ever heard. Just a fraction. Just enough to show the pressure underneath. “If the board finds out you’re under investigation and still running the show, we’re both finished.”
“Someone is framing me.” Margot picked up the invoice and studied it. Her voice came out level, the voice she’d learned to use when everything was falling apart. “The shipping company is in Wilmington. The P.O. box is in Kill Devil Hills. Both traceable. But the billing name is a forgery.”
She set the invoice back on the desk. “Whoever ordered these crates needed them to transport twenty-four glass ornaments safely. They knew the dimensions of Lila’s pieces. They knew how to pack blown glass. And they placed the order ten days before the showcase.”
She watched Elaine’s face as the next words landed. “I didn’t know the collection existed until nine days out, the morning after the deal closed.”
Elaine’s hands pressed harder against the desk. Her knuckles were white.
Margot continued, “So, whoever placed that order knew about Lila’s glass a full day before I did. They knew the dimensions, knew how to pack blown glass, and knew my business name well enough to use it as a cover.”
She paused. “My business name, Elaine. My address, off my website, available to anyone who spent thirty seconds looking. Who else knew about the collection before you told me?”
Elaine’s face was very still. The espresso machine hummed on the credenza. The clock ticked. But her eyes faltered. Just once. Long enough for Margot to glimpse guilt, grief, or both.
Elaine didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Caleb knew. Because she was his sister, and sisters talk. Especially about the biggest deal of the year.
Margot walked out of the office and made it to the stairwell before her legs gave out.
Same step. Same cold concrete. Same buzzing fluorescent light. The last time she’d sat here, Evan had walked through the door with a flashlight and a coil of rope and sat one step below her without being asked.
This was worse than the theft.
Someone had put her name on the shipping crates. Her keycard in the corridor log.
Except she wasn’t alone. Not this time.
Her phone buzzed.
