“You have already paid for October,” I said.
“It is about efficiency, Mom,” she said, pulling a long strip of clear tape across the cardboard box with a loud screech. “Arthur is trying to help me save where I can.”
I carried a stack of flattened boxes toward the kitchen alcove to find the roll of packing tape. Beside the pantry, the green recycling bin was piled high with junk mail and old circulars.
A thick window envelope sat near the top, the plastic film torn open to reveal a bright pink slip.
I pulled it out under the pretext of clearing space, my eyes scanning the bold black lettering at the top. The letter was addressed to Arthur, but sent to Rowan’s apartment address, from a firm called Midland Recovery Systems.
The demand was for four thousand eight hundred dollars, marked past due.
“Did you find the tape, Mom?” Rowan called from the living room.
I shoved the pink paper into my cardigan pocket and picked up a black marker from the counter. “Yes, I have it right here.”
The basement of the county records office smelled of old glue and cold basement air when the doors opened at nine the next morning. I sat at a metal viewing terminal, scrolling through the microfilm index of local business filings.
The clerk behind the counter, a woman with graying hair and a quiet manner, watched me tap the screen.
“Are you looking for property deeds or business registrations?” she asked.
“Business registrations,” I said. “For a consulting firm called Vanguard Services.”
She typed on her own keyboard, the keys clicking loudly in the quiet room. “The active status was revoked three years ago, but there is an outstanding state tax lien on the corporate assets.”
I leaned toward the monitor. “How much is the lien?”
“Forty-one thousand two hundred dollars,” she said, pointing to the line on her screen. “It was renewed six months ago.”
I wrote the number down on the back of a grocery receipt, my silver watch strap catching on the edge of the desk. “Who is listed as the sole proprietor?”
“Arthur Vance,” she said.
