Chapter 4 - The Girl Who Laughed Last
Tessa Quinn had been working at Bellamy Cellars for eleven months, which was long enough to know the difference between a difficult customer and a difficult person.
Caleb Mercer hadn't been difficult.
He'd asked for six gift boxes.
That was it.
She kept replaying the scene in her mind as she rode the bus home.
The way Sloane's voice sharpened.
The sound of the card breaking.
The awful silence before everyone pretended the situation was funny.
Tessa hated that she'd laughed.
She hadn't even found it amusing.
She'd laughed because Sloane was her boss, because Brielle had laughed, and because standing alone against a cruel joke had suddenly felt more frightening than joining it.
Now she couldn't stop seeing Caleb's face.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Brielle.
You okay?
Tessa typed, No.
Three dots appeared.
Don't overthink it. Sloane got carried away.
Tessa stared at the screen.
She threw a bank card at his face.
I know.
And we laughed.
A longer pause.
I've got a kid and a mortgage, Tess. I'm not getting dragged into this.
Tessa locked her phone.
She understood.
Brielle had an eight-year-old son, Nico, and an elderly father whose care depended partly on her salary.
But understanding wasn't the same as agreeing.
At the next stop, Tessa got off the bus and walked three blocks back toward the store.
She'd forgotten something in her locker.
Or at least that was the explanation she intended to give if anyone asked.
The back entrance was still unlocked for employees.
She slipped through the corridor and passed the office Sloane usually occupied.
The door was ajar.
Inside, a man's voice spoke sharply.
"...can't have Mercer looking at the original manifests."
Tessa stopped.
She recognized Evan Rusk, the company's chief financial officer.
Sloane answered.
"Then maybe you should've told me why he was coming."
"I told you enough."
"No. You told me he was trouble."
"Was I wrong?"
Tessa edged closer.
She couldn't see them, but the voices were unmistakable.
Sloane sounded furious.
"He embarrassed me."
Evan laughed without warmth.
"From what I hear, you handled the embarrassment yourself."
A chair scraped.
"Get out of my office, Evan."
"Tomorrow morning, remove the B-17 inventory cards from the Founder's Selection display. They're being reclassified."
Tessa's heart began beating faster.
She knew B-17.
That code had appeared on several gift boxes she'd unpacked the previous week.
She remembered because one of the cases had arrived with a damaged shipping label, and she'd spent nearly fifteen minutes trying to match it to the inventory system.
The receiving document listed twelve boxes.
The physical shipment contained eighteen.
When she asked Sloane about the difference, Sloane told her to record twelve and leave the extras in the storeroom.
Six extra boxes.
Tessa had taken a photograph of the shipping label because she'd been worried she'd get blamed for the discrepancy.
Now the chief financial officer was ordering the labels removed.
She slowly backed away.
Her heel caught the corner of a cleaning bucket.
The metal handle clattered against the floor.
Inside the office, the conversation stopped.
"Who's out there?" Evan demanded.
Tessa kept moving.
She rounded the corner before either person reached the door.
At her locker, she grabbed her coat, checked that her phone was still in her pocket, and opened the back exit.
A voice stopped her.
"Tessa?"
She turned.
Miles Knox stood beside the security desk.
He looked tired.
"You're here late."
"Forgot my scarf."
He glanced at her empty hands.
"Right."
For a moment, she thought he might report her.
Instead, he nodded toward the street.
"Better get home."
She hesitated.
"Miles, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"That guy today. Caleb. Did he do anything wrong?"
Miles studied her.
"Not that I saw."
"Then why didn't anybody say something?"
He looked toward the office corridor.
"I've been asking myself the same question."
Tessa swallowed.
"Do you think they'll fire Sloane?"
"That's not my decision."
"What about us?"
"What about you?"
"We laughed."
Miles didn't rescue her from the answer.
"Yeah. You did."
Tessa felt tears sting her eyes.
"I'm not like that."
Miles's expression softened, but his voice remained firm.
"Then don't be like that tomorrow."
He returned to his desk.
Tessa stepped outside.
For the first time all evening, she knew what she needed to do.
She opened the photograph she'd taken of the shipping label.
The date was clearly visible.
October 15.
The supplier's identification number was printed beneath B-17.
She enlarged the image.
Then she noticed something strange.
The manufacturer listed on the label was a company called Larch Storage Services.
Tessa frowned.
Storage companies didn't manufacture luxury wine gift boxes.
She searched the name online.
The first result showed a warehouse in an industrial section of Chelsea, Massachusetts.
The second listed a registered agent.
Evan Rusk.
Tessa stood beneath a streetlamp, staring at the screen.
She thought about the missing six boxes.
About the manager's sudden anger.
About Caleb's expression when the card broke.
Then she opened her messages and searched for his company.
Northline Trace had a public contact form.
She typed slowly.
My name is Tessa Quinn. I work at Bellamy Cellars. I was there today, and I'm sorry I laughed.
She hesitated.
Then continued.
I think I know why someone didn't want you looking at the gift boxes.
She attached the photograph.
And pressed send.
Twenty minutes later, her phone rang from an unfamiliar number.
She answered.
A man's voice spoke quietly.
"Tessa? It's Caleb Mercer."
"Hi."
He waited.
She swallowed.
"I think your father was right."
The silence on the other end lasted so long that Tessa thought the call had disconnected.
May you like
Then Caleb asked one question.
"How do you know about my father?"
