“These are the joint tax filings from the last fiscal year,” Caleb said, his voice dropping into his usual deliberate legal precision.
“Is there a problem with the deduction list?” I asked, sitting down opposite him.
“The deductions are standard,” Caleb said, tracing a line of numbers with the tip of his pen. “But I ran a routine check on your consulting firm’s registration this morning.”
“The one we set up for Adam’s independent contracts?” I asked.
“The very one,” Caleb said. “There is an unexplained loan of twelve thousand dollars listed against the corporate credit line.”
I adjusted my silver watch, pulling the metal band tight against my wrist.
“Adam handles the corporate accounts,” I said. “He told me the credit line was completely clear.”
Caleb stopped tapping his pen and looked at me, his eyes steady behind his thin frames.
“The loan was approved three weeks ago,” Caleb said. “And the paperwork lists your personal savings account as the primary collateral.”
“That must be a clerical error,” I said, my voice remaining polite and measured.
“I am going to pull the full corporate ledger from the registry office tonight,” Caleb said, writing a brief note on his yellow pad. “Just to be certain of the authorization signatures.”
“He said he would be in Tennessee until Friday,” I whispered, looking at the tax forms.
Caleb closed the folder with a soft thud.
“Let me do the paperwork search first,” he said.
By four in the afternoon, the passenger boarding bridge felt cool and sterile, smelling of aviation fuel and damp carpet.
Evelyn stood at the aircraft entrance of flight eight-forty, her hands clasped in front of her uniform as the first passengers began to trickle down the narrow ramp.
I stood beside her, holding the digital tablet that displayed the seat assignments and passenger profiles for the premium cabin.
“The late-addition pair just cleared security,” Evelyn whispered as she smiled at an elderly couple walking past.
I tapped the screen of the tablet to refresh the boarding list for row two.
The digital file for seat two-A loaded slowly, showing the security check clearance and the passenger profile details.
Under the billing address for the premium ticket, the screen displayed twelve-forty-two Laurel Court, Miami.
I stared at the address, my finger freezing on the glass screen.
It was my own home address, the house I had lived in for fifteen years.
