Chapter 3: What the Flowers Cost
My attorney's name was Donald Marsh.
He had handled my affairs for eleven years and never once raised his voice.
When I called him at seven that morning, he picked up on the second ring.
"I found a third account," I said.
"The transfers didn't stop with Raymond.
There's a separate line going to a woman named Elaine Corby.
Raymond's mother."
A pause.
"How much?"
"Forty-one thousand.
Over six months."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Send me the statements."
I photographed every page and sent them before I finished my coffee.
The house was quiet.
My wife had left without saying goodbye.
I could hear the neighbor's sprinklers through the kitchen window, and somewhere down the street a car door slammed.
A normal Saturday morning.
A wedding day.
I put on a clean shirt and drove to the Bayfront Pavilion.
The parking lot was already half full when I arrived.
Florists were unloading white arrangements from a van near the side entrance.
A young man in a catering uniform held the door open for a woman carrying a tower of boxed centerpieces.
Everything looked exactly as it should.
I walked to the venue manager's office and knocked.
Gerald Foss opened the door himself.
He was a careful man, mid-fifties, the kind who kept paper records alongside digital ones.
We had met twice before, both times when I signed the original contract.
"Mr.
Harlan," he said.
"I expected you might come in person."
"The call this morning," I said.
"Do you still have the number they called from?"
He turned to his desk and handed me a printed log without being asked.
"I had a feeling you'd want that."
The number had a local area code.
I didn't recognize it, but I photographed it.
"No changes were made to the contract?" I asked.
"None.
Your name is still the sole trust holder on file.
Nothing moves without your signature."
I thanked him and stepped back into the corridor.
The flowers smelled expensive.
White roses and something else — gardenia, maybe.
My daughter had spent three weeks choosing them.
I remembered because she had shown me photographs at the kitchen table, back when she still sat at the kitchen table with me.
Back when I was still her father in the way that counted.
I stood in the corridor for a moment and let myself feel that.
Then I put it away and called Donald back.
"The number they used to call the venue," I said.
"I need to know whose it is."
"Give me an hour," he said.
I walked back to my car and sat with the door open.
Guests were beginning to arrive now.
I recognized some of them — neighbors, old friends of my wife's, a couple from the church we used to attend together.
They moved toward the entrance in small groups, dressed well, carrying gifts.
None of them looked at me.
My phone buzzed.
A text from my wife: *Where are you?
People are asking.*
I read it twice.
Then I set the phone face-down on the passenger seat.
She wasn't asking because she missed me.
She was asking because my absence was becoming visible, and visibility was the one thing she hadn't planned for.
Donald called back in forty minutes.
"The number belongs to a prepaid phone," he said.
"Purchased six days ago.
Cash transaction at a convenience store on Mercer Street."
"So they planned this call in advance."
"At least six days in advance," he said.
"Harlan, this is not impulsive behavior.
Someone organized this carefully."
I looked through the windshield at the entrance to the Bayfront Pavilion.
A woman in a pale blue dress was laughing at something her companion had said.
The doors were propped open.
Music drifted out — something soft and orchestral, the kind they play before a ceremony begins.
"Donald," I said.
"How long would it take to suspend the venue contract?"
A beat of silence.
"I could have a notice to Foss within the hour," he said carefully.
"But Harlan — if you do that, the ceremony cannot proceed.
Not here."
"I know," I said.
"Your daughter will—"
"I know what she'll do," I said.
"I need to know what's legal."
"It's entirely legal.
The trust is yours.
The contract is yours.
You have full authority."
I watched a white car pull into the lot.
Raymond stepped out of the passenger side, adjusting his jacket.
He was tall, well-dressed, the kind of man who understood how to look like he belonged somewhere.
He scanned the lot once — and for just a moment, his eyes passed over my car.
He didn't recognize it.
He walked inside.
May you like
"Don't send the notice yet," I said.
"I want to go in first."
