“She spent years taking care of people.”
“Don’t turn suspicion into a verdict before we know the truth.”
Mason rubbed a hand across his forehead.
“I’m not doing this for entertainment, David.”
Margaret looked toward Mason.
“You want a clean answer?”
“Life isn’t a clean ledger.”
She unhooked the order pad from her apron.
“Keep the keys.”
“Just don’t call me guilty because the numbers make you uncomfortable.”
Mason stepped closer.
“You had access to everything.”
“The register.”
“The meal adjustments.”
“The cash drawer.”
“The old account book.”
He held up his hands.
“Who else am I supposed to question?”
“Question me.”
Margaret’s voice sharpened for the first time.
“Don’t punish me because I’m convenient.”
“I’m trying to keep this place alive.”
“Then save it.”
Margaret’s expression softened for half a second.
“Just don’t make me your easiest answer.”
Mason looked toward the dining room.
Everyone was staring at him.
That made him angrier.
Not because he liked humiliating Margaret.
Because somewhere deep inside, he had already convinced himself that public certainty was necessary.
If he hesitated now, everyone would think he was weak.
If he admitted he did not know exactly what had happened, then the numbers became frightening again.
And numbers Mason could not explain had kept him awake for weeks.
David stood from his stool.
“Enough, Mason.”
Mason turned.
“You’re not questioning her anymore.”
David pointed toward Margaret.
“You’re humiliating her.”
“Back off, Dave.”
Mason’s voice rose.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do in my own diner.”
“And stop acting like anger makes you right.”
“I’m trying to save their jobs.”
Mason gestured toward the kitchen.
“Lena.”
“Cal.”
“Emily.”
“Half the people in this place depend on these hours.”
He looked back at Margaret.
“But she won’t explain a damn thing.”
Margaret said nothing.
Mason laughed bitterly.
“You keep standing there like silence makes you innocent.”
“No.”
Margaret folded her arms.
“It keeps me from performing for your crowd.”
“She’s not on trial,” David said.
“Stop acting like a prosecutor.”
“Fine.”
Mason turned toward Margaret.
“Then answer one question.”
He lowered his voice.
“Where did the money go?”
Margaret stared at him.
For three seconds, something moved behind her eyes.
Pain.
Not fear.
Mason saw it and mistook it for guilt.
“You want an answer?” she said.
“Stop asking like you’ve already convicted me.”
“I won’t beg this room for my own name back.”
She removed the apron from around her waist.
“When you’re ready to listen, ask again.”
Mason shook his head.
“Don’t hide behind dignity when I’m asking for the truth.”
“You’re asking for a confession.”
Margaret folded the apron.
“Not an answer.”
David stepped beside her.
“And your anger still isn’t evidence.”
Mason looked at him.
“I trusted her, David.”
That was the first thing Mason said that sounded less angry than hurt.
“That’s what makes this feel like betrayal.”
Then his eyes shifted.
A young server stood near the beverage station.
Emily Rowan.
Twenty-seven.