“Did you forge documents? Did you steal money from Marcus Vance six years ago, and did Dad take the fall for it?”
“Maya, no! What are you talking about?” Leo stepped toward me, but I held up a hand to stop him.
“I was just at the gym,” I said, my voice breaking. “Marcus showed me the contract. The promissory note Dad took the blame for. Your signature is on the bottom, Leo. I saw it with my own eyes. I know your handwriting.”
Leo looked completely bewildered. He shook his head violently. “No. No, Maya, that’s impossible. I never signed anything for Marcus.”
“It was dated October 14th! Six years ago. The day before Marcus took over!”
Leo went completely still. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale beneath the engine grease. “Maya… October 14th?”
“Yes!”
“Think, Maya,” Leo whispered, his voice trembling. “Where was I on October 14th, six years ago?”
I blinked, the anger stalling in my throat. I tried to pull the memory through the haze of trauma from that week. It had been the worst week of our lives. Dad lost the fight, he had the stroke... and right before all of that...
“You were in the hospital,” I breathed.
“I blew out my knee at work,” Leo said, taking a step closer. “I was in surgery on the 13th. I was heavily medicated and physically strapped to a bed in the orthopedic ward on the 14th. I couldn’t even hold a fork, let alone sign a legal document.”
My stomach plummeted. He was telling the truth. I remembered visiting him in the hospital. He had been unconscious most of the day.
“Then how is your signature on that paper?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.
Leo frowned, pacing toward his tool chest. “Someone who knew my handwriting. Someone who had access to my clipboard at the hospital. Maya, who visited me that day while you were at the gym with Dad?”
I felt a cold rush of adrenaline wash over my scalp.
Only one person had gone to the hospital to check on Leo that afternoon.
Coach Harris.
“Dad knew,” Leo said suddenly, rummaging frantically through the top drawer of his tool chest. “Before he had the stroke, Dad left me an envelope. He told me not to open it unless the gym ever got sold. He said there was a key inside. I hid it in my locker in the back.”
“Leo, go get it,” I urged, stepping fully into the garage.
Leo rushed to the back room, disappearing through a battered metal door. Ten seconds later, I heard a loud crash of falling metal.
“Maya!” Leo yelled.
I sprinted to the back room. The door to Leo’s personal employee locker was pried open, the metal warped and groaning. Tools, paperwork, and spare clothes were thrown wildly across the floor.
Leo was staring at the mess in horror. “It’s gone. The envelope is gone.”
A sudden noise—the scrape of a boot against concrete—echoed from the rear emergency exit door, which was propped open to the dark alley behind the shop.
I didn't think. I sprinted past Leo, exploding through the exit door into the pitch-black alley.
A shadow was moving fast near the dumpsters. I closed the distance in three strides, launching myself forward. I hit the person squarely in the back, driving them hard onto the asphalt. They grunted in pain, dropping something that skittered away in the dark.
I grabbed the intruder by the collar and hauled them over, pinning them under my knee.
In the dim light from a streetlamp, I recognized the face immediately.
It was Damon. Marcus's heavyweight from the dojo.