Chapter 7: The Accountant Calls Back
The guests stayed for four hours.
Nobody mentioned Carol.
Nobody mentioned Richard.
Daniel's aunt from Portland helped carry dishes to the kitchen and told me, quietly, near the end of the night, that she had always thought Carol went too far.
She said it the way people say things they've held for years — carefully, like setting down something fragile.
"She does it because she's frightened," the aunt said.
"That doesn't make it right."
"No," I said.
"It doesn't."
By nine o'clock the house was empty.
Daniel and I washed dishes without talking much.
The silence wasn't angry.
It was the silence of two people who have a great deal to say and are waiting for the right moment.
He found the accountant's folder at eleven-thirty, in a box in the back of the hall closet behind a broken printer and three years of tax returns.
He set it on the kitchen table and we sat together and went through it.
The accountant — a man named Gerry Falk, according to the business card clipped to the folder — had flagged four items before Daniel had dropped the inquiry.
A transfer of sixty thousand dollars from the estate account to a private LLC two weeks after Daniel's father died.
A property sale that had been recorded at thirty percent below market value.
A fee structure that Gerry had written one word next to in red pen: *excessive.* And a final note at the bottom of the last page, in handwriting: *Client instructed to discontinue.
Recommend independent legal review if client reconsiders.*
Daniel stared at that last line for a long time.
"He told you to get a lawyer," I said.
"I know."
"And you stopped anyway."
"She was grieving.
I thought—" He stopped.
"I told myself she needed me to let it go."
I didn't say anything to that.
I took a photo of every page with my phone.
The next morning I called Gerry Falk's number from the business card.
It rang five times and went to voicemail.
I left a message with my name, my number, and three words: *I'm Daniel's wife.*
He called back in under an hour.
"Mrs.
Calloway," he said.
"I wondered if I'd ever hear from your family again."
"Mr.
Falk," I said, "I'd like to know what you found four years ago.
All of it.
Not the version that was gentle with anyone."
A pause.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He talked for forty minutes.
I took notes on a legal pad, filling two full pages.
When he finished, I asked him one question.
"Is any of this still actionable?"
Another pause, longer this time.
"Estatematters have a statute of limitations.
But the LLC is still active.
And if there have been ongoing transactions—" He stopped.
"Mrs.
Calloway, do you have access to any current financial records?
Anything from the last two or three years?"
"Not yet," I said.
"If you can get them," he said, "call me back.
And this time — get a lawyer first."
I set down my pen.
Looked at the two pages of notes.
Looked at the photo of the law firm's letterhead on my phone — the same firm that had handled Daniel's father's estate.
Daniel was standing in the kitchen doorway with two cups of coffee.
He had heard most of it.
He set one cup in front of me without a word.
"She's going to call," I said.
"Carol.
Probably today."
"I know."
"When she does," I said, "don't answer it."
He sat down.
Wrapped both hands around his cup.
"Olivia." He looked at me directly.
"I'm sorry.
Not just for yesterday.
For all of it.
For every time I said let her have this one day." He stopped.
"I let her have too many days."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"I know," I said.
"But sorry isn't the last step.
It's the first one."
His phone lit up on the table between us.
Carol.
We both looked at it.
It rang four times.
Five.
Then stopped.
One minute later, a text appeared: *Daniel, Richard says we need to talk before you do anything foolish.
This is still fixable.
Call me.*
Daniel turned his phone face-down on the table.
May you like
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"Now," I said, "we find a lawyer."
