Chapter 3 - The Unexpected Morning Call
Sleep did not come easily that night. When it finally did, around four in the morning, it was fitful, filled with chaotic dreams of empty tables, endless register receipts, and Julian’s cold, unblinking eyes.
When my alarm went off at seven-thirty, my eyes were swollen, red, and burning. I dragged myself out of bed, made sure Chloe’s breakfast was set out on the table, and spent two hours staring blankly at my chemistry textbooks, unable to absorb a single equation. The image of those four hundred-dollar bills disappearing into Julian's metal drop box repeated over and over in my mind like an agonizing loop.
My shift at L’Auberge Dorée wasn't scheduled to start until four o’clock in the afternoon.
However, at precisely nine-fifteen in the morning, my phone began to buzz violently on the wooden desk, vibrating against my textbook.
I picked it up, expecting a reminder notification for a class or a text from a classmate.
The caller ID displayed the restaurant’s landline number: L'AUBERGE DOREE.
My pulse spiked instantly. My first thought was that Julian was calling to fire me anyway, or perhaps to accuse me of another ridiculous policy breach. I hesitated, letting it ring three times before sliding the green button to answer.
"Hello?" I said, my voice raspy and tight.
"Maya? Is this Maya?"
It was Julian. But it didn't sound like Julian.
The smooth, controlled, icy tone he had used to strip me of my earnings twelve hours prior was completely gone. His voice was frantic, breathy, pitched an octave higher than normal, and laced with a strange, uncharacteristic tremor.
"Yes, Julian," I said cautiously, leaning back in my chair. "What’s going on? My shift isn't until four—"
"I need you to come in right now," he interrupted, stammering over his words. "Immediately. Leave whatever you're doing and get down here as fast as you can."
"Julian, I have a class at eleven," I said, trying to hold my ground. "If there's an issue with my shift—"
"Forget your class!" Julian blurted out, a note of sheer panic leaking through the speaker. "Maya, please. I am asking you—no, I am begging you to get here right now. Something... something happened during the deep clean this morning."
I frowned, holding the phone away from my ear for a moment to stare at it in disbelief. Julian had never said "please" to anyone in the entire two years I had worked under him. He was a dictator in a tailored suit. Hearing him sound broken and panicked was deeply unsettling.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice tightening. "Did someone break in?"
"No, no breaking in," Julian stammered, breathing heavily into the receiver. "The night deep-cleaning crew... they were moving the furniture in Section Four. They unbolted the heavy velvet booth at Table 14 to steam-clean the carpets underneath and clean behind the wooden paneling."
My heart did a sudden, violent flip. Table 14.
"And?" I pushed, standing up from my desk. "Did they find cash? Did they drop their wallet?"
"No," Julian whispered, his voice shaking so hard it was almost difficult to understand him. "It’s not cash. It’s... Maya, I can't explain this over the phone. Just get here. Please. I've already called the restaurant owner, and he’s on his way too. You need to see this."
Before I could ask another question, the line went dead.
I stood in my bedroom, holding the quiet phone, my mind spinning into overdrive. What could possibly be behind a booth that would cause a arrogant manager to sound like he was having a nervous breakdown and prompt a call to the restaurant owner at nine in the morning?
I didn't waste time. I grabbed my jacket, tossed my keys into my bag, left a quick note for Chloe on the kitchen counter telling her I had an emergency at work, and ran down the stairs to the bus stop.
The twenty-minute bus ride felt like an eternity. Rain was still drizzling against the glass windows of the bus, blurring the city outside into streaks of gray and yellow light. My mind raced through a hundred wild scenarios. Was it drugs? A weapon? Stolen high-end jewels? None of it made sense. Why would a couple dressed in designer clothing drop something behind a velvet booth and walk out on a four-hundred-dollar meal?
When the bus finally squealed to a halt outside the financial district block, I didn't walk—I sprinted through the rain toward L’Auberge Dorée.
The street outside the restaurant was quiet, save for the early morning delivery trucks unloading crates of produce further down the alley. The heavy oak front doors of the restaurant, usually locked tight until three in the afternoon, were unlocked.
I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
The restaurant looked completely different in the cold, unyielding light of day. The warm, amber chandeliers were off, replaced by the harsh overhead work lights used by the cleaning staff. The ambient jazz music was silent. The floor smelled strongly of industrial floor cleaner, bleach, and old pine wood.
Standing in the center of the main dining aisle was Julian.
He looked as though he hadn't slept a single minute. His hair, usually slicked back with military precision, was disheveled, with several strands hanging limply down over his forehead. His tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned, and his hands were tucked deep into his trousers pockets, trembling visibly. He looked pale, gaunt, and completely stripped of his usual arrogant composure.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind me, Julian spun around. His eyes widened, and he practically ran toward me across the polished wood floor.
"You're here," he breathed out, sounding like a man who had been drowning and had just breached the surface of the water. "Thank God you're here."
"Julian, what is going on?" I asked, stopping a few feet away from him, my arms crossed defensively over my chest. "You sounded insane on the phone."
Julian didn't answer me verbally. Instead, he turned around and pointed with a trembling hand toward the eastern wall of the dining room—toward Section Four, Table 14.
The heavy mahogany frame of the corner booth had been pulled completely away from the wall by the cleaning crew. Its dark velvet cushions were propped up against the adjacent table, and the floor paneling behind the seating structure was exposed, revealing the dark, dusty gap between the furniture frame and the building's structural wall.
On top of Table 14, resting directly under the harsh glare of an overhead work lamp, sat an object.
It wasn't a wallet. It wasn't a envelope of money.
It was a thick, heavy, antique leather binder, bound in dark brown hide that looked decades old. Its corners were reinforced with tarnished brass plates, and across the front cover, deeply embossed into the cracked leather, was a complex, gilded emblem—a crest featuring a double-headed falcon clutching a key and a sword.
"What is that?" I asked, stepping closer, drawn by a sudden, irresistible magnetic pull of curiosity.
Julian swallowed hard, his throat making a loud, dry clicking sound. He walked over to the table, his hands hovering over the binder as if he were afraid it might explode if he touched it.
"The night crew found it wedged deep into the structural recess behind the booth's support frame," Julian whispered, his eyes wide and unfocused. "It wasn't dropped by accident, Maya. Someone deliberately slid it down a narrow concealed seam in the back of the cushion where the leather meets the wall paneling."
May you like
He looked at me, his pale face reflecting genuine, unadulterated terror.
"I opened it," Julian said quietly, holding out the thick binder toward me with hands that could not stay still. "I think you need to see this."
