I drove to Murfreesboro the next day. It was the first time I'd left Lily's side in over a month, and I only went because her grandmother — Tom and Dana's mother-in-law, my own mother — agreed to sit with her. Mom took one look at my face in the hospital lobby and said, "What did she do?"
"How do you know it's Dana?"
"Because you're driving home in the middle of your daughter's chemo, and Tom's been avoiding my calls for a week."
I went straight to our building on Broad Street. The office door was locked. My key still worked. Inside, the office was dark. The desk where our part-time coordinator sat was empty, her computer gone. I walked back to the warehouse, flipped on the lights, and my knees nearly gave out.
Half the warehouse was empty. Our inventory — the chiavari chairs, the farmhouse tables, the dance floor panels, the uplighting rigs, the commercial tent packages, the sound system — we carried over $180,000 in event equipment. What was left wouldn't have filled a two-car garage.
I was standing there in the middle of that echoing empty space when I heard the door. Dana walked in, carrying a Starbucks cup, wearing a cream blazer and a smile like she owned the place. Which, according to a forged quitclaim deed, she thought she did.
"Megan! Oh my God, you're here." She set the coffee down and opened her arms for a hug. "You should have called. I would have — "
"Where is the equipment, Dana?"
Her arms dropped. "What?"
"The chairs. The tables. The lighting. Half the warehouse is empty. Where is it?"
She blinked, and I watched her face do something I'd never seen before — a quick, cold calculation, like a machine switching gears. "We had a break-in. Three months ago. I filed a police report and an insurance claim. I didn't tell you because you had enough on your plate."
"A break-in."
"Yes. They took the good stuff. The insurance paid out. I used the money to keep the business running." She folded her arms. "You're welcome, by the way."
I stared at her. "Show me the police report."
"It's at home. I'll find it."
"Show me the insurance payout. Show me where the money went."
Her smile didn't move, but her eyes went flat. "I don't appreciate being interrogated in my own warehouse, Megan. I've been killing myself to keep this company alive while you've been gone. The vendors, the clients, the employees — I've handled all of it. And you walk in here and accuse me of stealing?"
"I'm not accusing you of stealing. I'm asking where the equipment is."
"You know what your problem is?" She picked up her coffee. "You've always thought you were the talented one. The creative one. The face of Southern Bloom. And I was just the bookkeeper. The boring one behind the desk. Well, guess what — the boring one is the one who kept the lights on."
She walked past me toward the door. At the threshold she stopped. "Lily's going to be fine, by the way. Kids bounce back. But this business? This business is mine now, Megan. I earned it. You should be grateful I'm letting you keep your name on the door."
The door clicked shut behind her. I stood in that half-empty warehouse, shaking, and I understood something with total clarity: this wasn't panic or desperation. Dana wasn't sorry. She wasn't even scared. She believed she deserved everything she'd taken.
I pulled out my phone and called the number on the police report she'd mentioned — the one I'd looked up myself, because I didn't trust a word out of her mouth. The Murfreesboro Police records clerk told me no burglary had ever been reported at our address.
Dana had sold our equipment, filed a false insurance claim on it, and pocketed the payout. And she'd just told me to be grateful.
