The folder was empty except for a single stapled document on white legal paper.
Thomas adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and shone the flashlight directly onto the page. I turned the first sheet over.
It was a standard residential lease agreement for a luxury apartment downtown at 412 South Mercer Street, Penthouse B. The monthly rent was four thousand two hundred dollars, a sum that exceeded the monthly mortgage payment on my own home on Maple Street.
“The tenant listed is Kelsey Vance,” Thomas said, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper. “But look at the signature on the guarantor line at the bottom, Miss Claire.”
I looked down at the dark blue ink. My husband’s signature, bold and slanted, sat directly above the printed name of Whitmore Freight.
The corporate tax identification number was written in his handwriting in the adjacent box. The monthly lease payments were drawn directly from our corporate event fund, a discretionary account that Evan controlled without board oversight.
Thomas looked away from the paper, his gaze fixing on the dark corner of the archives room. His face was tight with embarrassment, his jaw set.
“I found the lease, Mrs. Cole, but there is no consulting work attached to this name,” Thomas said.
I looked at the date on the lease. The agreement had been signed in October of the previous year, two weeks before Evan told me he had to work late every Tuesday night to oversee the new regional shipping schedules.
I touched the edge of the paper. Kelsey Vance was twenty-six years old, according to the tenant application attached to the back of the lease.
“Has this woman ever been to the office, Thomas?” I asked.
“She came to the lobby twice last autumn,” Thomas said, keeping his eyes on the floor. “She told the receptionist she was here to deliver promotional materials. Mr. Cole met her in the lobby and took her up to his private office.”
