Chapter 13 - Footsteps in the Rain
The rain began around four in the afternoon, a torrential downpour that turned the streets outside into dark, reflecting ribbons of asphalt. I stayed at my desk long after Clara had locked up and gone home, cross-referencing Donald’s personal tax returns from 1988 through 1992 with the public filings from the state department of revenue.
The records were incomplete. Donald’s early business, Vance Timber & Framing, had undergone a sudden capital infusion in November 1989—exactly three weeks after the date on Miriam’s covenant. The source of the sixty thousand dollars in seed capital was listed merely as "Private Capital Loan / Repaid." There was no record of repayment in the corporate accounts. No canceled check. No tax deduction for interest.
At seven-thirty, the floorboards in the outer hallway creaked.
The cleaning crew didn't come on Tuesdays.
I quietly slipped Donald’s folding ruler into my jacket pocket and moved toward the reception desk, keeping the lights off in the outer corridor. Through the frosted glass of the entrance door, a dark silhouette was visible under the yellow glow of the streetlamp outside. The figure was slumped, unsteadily shifting weight from one foot to the other.
I unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp twist and pulled the door open three inches, keeping the security chain engaged.
"Julian," I said flatly.
He was standing in the rain without an umbrella, his hair plastered to his forehead, wearing an expensive leather jacket that had seen better days. His eyes were bloodshot, circled with dark rings of exhaustion, and the smell of cheap bourbon drifted off him in waves.
"Mandy," he muttered, using the diminutive name I had forbidden him to speak three years ago. "Open the door. Please. It’s freezing out here."
"You have five seconds to step off this property before I trip the silent alarm to the police department," I told him, my hand hovering over the keypad inside the jamb. "You spoke to Miriam Cross. You gave her Donald’s private journals."
Julian flinched, clutching the collar of his wet jacket. "She paid me, Amanda! What was I supposed to do? You took everything! The house, the cars, my father’s money—you took it all and gave it to your little bookkeeper business while I was living in a motel room on Route 9!"
"Donald took it from you because you brought another woman into our home two days after he was laid in the ground!" My voice was a blade of ice, cutting through the drumming rain. "Donald gave it to Ruby. To protect her from you."
"Miriam isn't who you think she is," Julian hissed, stepping closer to the gap, his fingers gripping the doorframe. "You think she just wants her share? She’s working with Vance Holdings. She’s going to dismantle everything Donald built. She’s going to bulldoze the lake house, Amanda. She told me. She’s selling the land to a resort conglomerate from Detroit. Donald didn't steal from her—she tried to ruin him thirty years ago, and he hid the real ledger inside the workshop!"
I stared at him through the narrow crack. "What ledger, Julian?"
"The one he kept under the floor beneath the cast-iron planer," Julian whispered, his teeth chattering. "He never wrote it down in the digital files. He knew Miriam would come back if she ever found out he died. But she has the covenant, Amanda. And she has lawyers who don't lose. If you don't give her the commercial leases, she’s taking the lake house first."
Before I could answer, a set of high-beam headlights swept across the wet street, illuminating Julian in harsh, blinding white. A long black sedan idled by the curb, its exhaust curling into the damp night air.
Julian looked back at the car in terror. "They’re watching me," he breathed. "Don't trust the date on that covenant, Mandy. Look at the watermark."
May you like
He turned and broke into a stumbling run down the rain-slick sidewalk, disappearing into the darkness just as the black sedan put itself into gear and slowly rolled after him.
***
