Graham stood, his jaw clenched. “The cake. It has to be the cake.”
“We’ve tested it, Mr. Whitaker. Nothing. It’s a standard bakery cake, made with approved ingredients.” Dr. Albright shook his head. “I wish I had answers.”
Later, alone with Graham, I remembered the insurance forms. The calls in the garage. “Graham,” I said slowly, “what were those forms? What were you talking about on the phone?”
He avoided my gaze. “Just… work stuff, Tessa. A new client. Nothing to worry about.” But his voice lacked its usual conviction. Something was terribly wrong. He kept glancing at his phone.
Then, I remembered Mom’s early arrival and her unusually long hug. Had she known something? Had she tried to warn me?
The Baker’s Confession
I insisted on speaking to the baker, Mrs. Petrov, myself. Graham argued against it, saying it was a waste of time, but I wouldn’t be deterred. The bakery was a quaint little shop, smelling of vanilla and sugar, a cruel irony given the circumstances. Mrs. Petrov, a plump woman with flour dusting her apron, was visibly shaken when I explained my situation.
“Oh, Mrs. Whitaker, I’m so sorry. Those poor girls… I keep replaying it in my head, wondering if I missed something.”
“The doctor said the cake tested clean,” I said, my voice trembling. “But something happened. Something connected to that cake.”
Mrs. Petrov wrung her hands. “It’s just… Mr. Harding. He came in the day before the party. He insisted on picking up the cake himself. He was… insistent. He offered me a lot of money to make a slight alteration. To add a specific… coloring. A very rare, imported food dye.”
“Who is Mr. Harding?” I demanded, my heart pounding.
“I don’t know much. Just a new customer. He said he was a ‘consultant’ for a… a security firm. He paid in cash. A lot of cash. I asked about allergies, and he waved it off, said it was for a ‘private event’ and they weren’t worried about sensitivities.”
“Did you ask why he needed a specific dye?”
“He said it was for a visual effect. A special finish. He showed me a sample, a tiny vial with a blueish tint. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I just… needed the business.”
Graham, who had reluctantly accompanied me, was listening intently, his face growing darker with each word. He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to run a search on this ‘Mr. Harding.’”
“He also asked about your mother, Mrs. Whitaker,” Mrs. Petrov added hesitantly. “He asked if she’d been a customer here before. Said he thought he’d seen her.”
A chill ran down my spine. What did Mr. Harding want with my mother?
The Shadowy Firm and the Secret Account
Graham’s search revealed a disturbing truth. “Harding Security Solutions” wasn’t a security firm at all. It was a shell corporation, linked to a series of questionable financial transactions. And “Mr. Harding” wasn’t his real name. It was Daniel Blackwood, a man with a history of corporate espionage and… something darker. His specialty: neutralizing threats.
“Neutralizing threats?” I echoed, horrified. “What kind of threats?”
“The kind that can’t be dealt with legally,” Graham said grimly, scrolling through articles detailing Blackwood’s past. “He’s a ghost. Operates in the shadows.”
Then, he found something else. A hidden account in our name, opened six months ago. A substantial amount of money had been deposited, then slowly siphoned off over the past few months. All authorized by Graham’s signature.