Chapter 4 - The Audit and the Alias
By Monday morning, the news of Celeste Vane’s departure had swept through the estate like wildfire through dry pine.
The atmosphere in the kitchen was entirely different. The air smelled of fresh cinnamon rolls and brewed chicory coffee, and when I walked in carrying the updated staff roster, Addie looked up from her prep station with a wide, bright smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Beckett,” she said cheerfully.
“Good morning, Addie,” I replied, pinning my new silver house manager badge to the lapel of my dark gray blazer. “How’s your mother’s custody case coming along?”
Addie’s hands froze over the mixing bowl. “How did you—?”
“Percy mentioned your paperwork was being processed last week,” I said smoothly, setting the roster down on the counter. “Tell your mother to use the legal aid clinic in Poughkeepsie tied to the estate’s corporate account. Tell them I sent you. They’ll fast-track the filings by Friday.”
Addie stared at me, her lower lip trembling slightly, before she threw her arms around my neck in a sudden, fierce hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered fiercely. “Thank you so much.”
“Get back to your dough before Bess catches you,” I said, patting her shoulder gently before walking out into the main hallway.
For the next three days, I immersed myself in the administrative machinery of the Harwick estate. I audited the supply closets, reviewed the vendor invoices, and cross-referenced three years of payroll records against the bank transfers authorized by Celeste Vane’s personal secretary.
What I found in the basement safe made my blood run cold.
It wasn't just gambling debts at Saratoga. It was a systematic skimming operation. For over eighteen months, invoices for imported linens, gourmet catering supplies, and maintenance repairs had been inflated by thirty percent, with the difference funneled into a shell company registered in Delaware under a familiar name: Vane Holdings LLC.
Celeste hadn't just been a tyrant; she had been bleeding the estate dry while pretending to be its queen.
On Thursday evening at 7:00 PM, I knocked on the door of Garrett’s study. “Enter,” his voice called out.
I opened the door and walked in, carrying a thick manila folder containing the financial audit printouts, bank wire receipts, and duplicate invoice logs.
Garrett was reviewing a map of the new shipping terminals on his computer monitor. He looked up as I placed the folder squarely in the center of his desk, right where the keys had been three days ago.
“What is this?” he asked, leaning back.
“That is proof that Celeste Vane wasn't just stealing diamonds,” I said evenly. “She was stealing from your shipping division through inflated vendor contracts administered by her brother’s shell company in Delaware.”
Garrett didn't look surprised. He slowly opened the folder, flipped through the first three pages of wire transfers, and let out a long, slow breath through his nose.
“Vane Holdings,” he murmured, reading the signature block on page four. “Arthur Vane. Her father’s primary investment vehicle.”
“They took nearly four hundred thousand dollars over eighteen months,” I continued, pointing a finger at the summary sheet. “They disguised it as routine estate maintenance and pantry restocking. Bess and the kitchen staff had to make do with generic cleaning supplies while fifty grand a month was being funneled into a yacht club account in Newport.”
Garrett looked up from the folder, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of cold fury and profound respect.
“You found this in four days?”
“I found it because I knew how to look,” I said. “Poor people spend their whole lives reading the fine print because we can’t afford to miss the hidden fees. Rich people like the Vanes assume nobody is ever checking the math.”
Garrett stood up slowly, walked around the desk, and stopped just a foot away from me. The warmth of the fireplace cast long, flickering shadows across the room, catching the edge of his jaw and the sharp line of his shoulders.
“Laura,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Mr. Harwick?”
“Are you ever afraid of anything?”
I looked up into his eyes, holding his gaze without a single tremor of doubt.
“I was afraid of losing my father,” I said softly. “And I was afraid of starving when we lost our house. After you survive those two things, everything else in this world is just paperwork and posturing.”
May you like
Garrett let out a low, rumbling laugh—one that finally reached his eyes, melting away the winter frost that usually lived behind them.
“Good,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “Because the paperwork is about to get very interesting.”
