Chapter 4 - The Audit of Gaston Street
By 6:30 PM, the shadows of the live oaks had stretched across Gaston Street, their long, gray fingers of Spanish moss casting deep patterns of dark and light across the front porch of the house.
Arthur’s BMW pulled into the gravel driveway with a sharp, aggressive crunch. He turned off the engine, straightened his silk tie in the rearview mirror, and reached for his leather portfolio. He was in a good mood. He had spent the afternoon with two prospective investors from Charlotte who had been deeply impressed by his plans for the Riverfront District—plans that relied entirely on the forty-thousand-dollar deposit he assumed Brooke had already secured using my bank card.
"She’ll have cooled off by now," Brooke said from the passenger seat, her fingers busy with her phone as she checked the reservation for their dinner celebration at The Olde Pink House. "Lauren always was a creature of habit. She can't survive three days without her precious little routine."
"She’s stubborn," Arthur said, opening his door and stepping out into the warm, humid evening. "But she knows her place. My father always said a woman with an inheritance needs to be reminded of who keeps the books. Otherwise, they start believing they’re partners instead of wives."
They walked up the steps together, Arthur keying the lock with a smooth, practiced twist of his wrist.
The house was completely silent. The central air conditioning was running with a low, rhythmic hum, but the air felt thin, dead, devoid of the scent of dinner or the soft classical music I usually played while I worked in the upstairs study.
"Lauren?" Arthur called out, tossing his keys onto the marble console in the entryway. "Get down here. We’re going out for dinner, but I want that card before we leave."
There was no answer.
Arthur’s brow furrowed, a tiny line of irritation appearing between his eyes. He walked through the archway into the dining room, his boots making a sharp, hollow sound against the pine.
"Lauren!"
He entered the kitchen. Brooke followed him, her high heels clicking against the stone floor. She stopped at the edge of the island, her eyes immediately falling on the floor.
"She didn't even clean up the mess," Brooke said, her voice rising in a sharp, thin whine. "Look at this. There are coffee stains on the wainscoting. She is so incredibly childish, Arthur."
But Arthur wasn't looking at the floor.
He was looking at the breakfast table.
In the center of the dark oak wood, sitting in the golden pool of light cast by the hanging copper pendant, was my gold wedding ring. It sat perfectly balanced next to the stained, empty mug that had held his coffee that morning.
And beneath the ring was a single, blue-bordered legal folder.
Arthur reached out, his fingers picking up the blue folder with a sudden, jerky movement that was the exact opposite of his usual grace. His eyes scanned the first page, his face changing from a light, confident pink to a flat, bloodless white in the span of five seconds.
"What is it, Arthur?" Brooke asked, her hand reaching for his sleeve. "What did she leave? Is it some stupid note about her feelings?"
Arthur didn't answer her. He flipped to the second page, his thumb shaking so violently that the thick parchment tore along the staple line. There, at the bottom of the page, beneath the corporate seal of Vance Private Lending, was the signature of the Chief Executive Officer.
It wasn't a bank president in Atlanta.
It was written in the neat, elegant script of the woman whose face he had blistered eight hours before.
Lauren Vance Pendelton.
"No," Arthur whispered, his voice dropping into a ragged, dry gasp that sounded like he had just swallowed a throatful of the river silt. "No, this is a mistake. She doesn't have this kind of authority. She’s a graphic designer."
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"Arthur?" Brooke’s voice lost its playful, sharp edge, her eyes wide as she saw the sweat beginning to break out along her brother’s forehead. "What does it say? What’s wrong with the warehouse project?"
"She owns the paper, Brooke," Arthur said, his hands falling to his sides, the blue folder slipping from his fingers and scattering across the stained pine floorboards. "She owns the entire loan. And she’s just called the debt."
