“Is there any record of a recent payment on that lien?” I asked.
“No,” she said, her fingers pausing on the keys. “It has been accruing interest since the initial filing.”
The gravel in my driveway crunched at six that evening as Arthur’s silver truck pulled up to the porch. Rowan got out of the passenger side, carrying a basket of laundry, and went straight into the house to use the restroom.
Arthur stayed in the driver’s seat, the engine idling with a low, rhythmic rattle.
I walked down the wooden steps and stood by his open window.
“You have a tax lien against Vanguard Services, Arthur,” I said, keeping my voice low so it would not carry through the screen door.
He did not flinch or look away, instead running a hand over his slicked-back gray hair and giving me a patient, folksy smile.
“That is just old paperwork from a business I closed years ago,” he said, his voice warm and steady.
“A collection agency sent a demand letter to Rowan’s apartment yesterday,” I said, pulling the pink slip from my pocket and holding it against the truck door.
