The address listed for Oakhaven Events was a post office box in the downtown plaza, less than three blocks from the county courthouse.
“Who runs Oakhaven Events?” I asked.
“A local consultant,” Evan said. “We signed a six-month agreement.”
“I have not seen the contract,” I said.
“It is on the server,” he said, turning back toward the door. “Or in the central archive. I have a meeting with the regional transport board in ten minutes.”
He did not wait for me to answer before he stepped out of the office, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.
The room was quiet again, except for the distant rattle of a forklift lifting a wooden pallet in bay four.
I pulled the second ledger from the shelf, a thick book bound in red leather that contained the historical vendor registry.
I looked for Oakhaven Events in the alphabetical index under the letter O.
The page was clean, with no vendor identification number and no tax registry code.
I picked up the desk phone and dialed the extension for Naomi Price, our general counsel.
“Naomi,” I said when she answered. “Do you have the vendor file for Oakhaven Events?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, the sound of paper rustling.
“I have the master file list on my screen,” Naomi said. “There is no contract under that name.”
“Evan says it is a promotional consultant,” I said.
“We have no approved legal review for a consultant by that name,” Naomi said.
I thanked her and hung up the receiver, the plastic cold against my palm.
I looked down at my hand and realized I was rubbing the bare skin of my left ring finger.
The space where my ring usually sat felt slightly tender, though the platinum band was still in place.
