Arthur Abernathy arrived precisely at 9:00 AM the next day. He was a man of meticulous habits, evidenced by his crisply pressed suit and the perfectly aligned pens in his breast pocket. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple, and the first whispers of an impending storm stirred the ancient trees around Danforth Point.
“Ms. Danforth,” he greeted, his voice polite but firm. “I understand your concerns. Let’s start with the most recent tax documents.”
I led him to the library, where stacks of papers, some old, some distressingly new, covered the large mahogany table. The antique oceanographic journal from Aunt Martha lay under a pile of Beatrice’s architectural drafts, discreetly hidden for now. I couldn’t risk him thinking I was delusional.
“All current invoices, bank statements, and, of course, the lien notices,” I gestured to the disorganized piles. “Specifically, the $850,000 in alleged back taxes and penalties.”
Abernathy adjusted his spectacles, his gaze scanning the documents with unnerving efficiency. He pulled out a large, bound tax dossier dated six months prior.
As he worked, the storm outside began to rage in earnest. Rain lashed against the tall library windows, rattling the panes with a percussive rhythm. A sudden, deep boom of thunder shook the house, and the antique chandelier above us swayed.
The lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.
“Curious,” Abernathy murmured, his finger tracing a line on the document. He pulled another statement, comparing figures.
He then pulled out a third form, a federal tax transfer request. His brow furrowed. “This routing number… and this authorization code…”
A sudden, intense blast of cold air swept through the library, extinguishing two of the desk lamps with a soft *pop*. The remaining light flickered wildly, the air around us crackling with an unseen energy.
Abernathy shivered, rubbing his arms. His eyes were still fixed on the document. He wasn’t looking at me, or the storm, or the failing lights. He was entirely absorbed.
“Odd,” he mumbled, almost to himself, his voice barely audible over the wind. “This transfer of $850,000… from the Danforth Estate trust… to an offshore holding company… routing numbers 418-772-901… authorized by Julian Salinger. Personally.”
My breath hitched. My entire body went rigid.
Julian’s name. The exact sum. The routing numbers. And his personal authorization.
Abernathy looked up then, his eyes wide. He saw the look on my face, and his own went pale. He clamped his mouth shut, a hand flying to cover his lips as if to stuff the words back in.
He hadn’t meant for me to hear it. It was a professional’s slip, a muttered thought during an atmospheric surge. But the words hung in the air, cold and heavy as the storm outside.
“What did you just say, Mr. Abernathy?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. My hands, resting on the table, began to tremble.
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