“Martha Vance mentioned she saw some old charter documents from the fifties in the county archives,” I said, setting his tea on the side table. “I thought we might still have the original partnership agreements in the house files.”
Ethan did not lower the newspaper.
“Those files were discarded years ago, Nora,” he said, his public relations voice perfectly smooth, without a hint of irritation. “The company was restructured five years ago. There is no reason to look at thirty-year-old paperwork.”
“The tax office occasionally asks for the historical basis,” I said.
He turned the page, the dry paper rustling in the quiet room.
“The tax office has everything they need,” he said.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
An hour later, I was in the small storage room behind the Apex offices on Main Street. The room was narrow, lined with metal shelves containing old project bids and zoning permits. The scent of damp pine needles drifted in through the cracked window that faced the alley.
