Page 1 of Mane in Finance

1

SOPHIE

The radiator in my office clears its throat every twenty minutes like an old man about to say something important, and after three weeks I've stopped flinching. I know this building now, the floorboards outside the supply closet groans, the espresso machine only cooperates if you hold the lever crooked, the smell of pine sap drifts in whenever somebody props the back door. This is what I signed up for. A small firm above a bakery, a town with one traffic light, work that ends when the sun does. My last job in the city ate four years of my life and gave me acid reflux as a parting gift.

Rhoda from the front desk drops a box on my chair Monday morning and tells me it's the Ashcroft engagement, and by Thursday I've forgotten what sleep tastes like.

It starts small. A subsidiary called Harborlight Freight bills a company called Pinecrest Provisioning nine hundred thousand dollars for what the invoice calls "seasonal inventory management." Fine, boring, except Harborlight has no trucks registered anywhere in the state, and Pinecrest's only physical address is a mail drop in a strip mall two hundred miles from here. I pull the next file, same story, different letterhead. By the fourth folder I've stopped taking notes on paper and started building a spreadsheet, because paper can't keep up with what I'm seeing.

Thirty-one entities, then forty, then sixty-three, and I quit counting because that's making my hands shake. Money moves through them like water through a canal system somebody engineered with real care, lock, gate, lock, gate, always downhill, never once pooling long enough to be noticed. Some of these companies file taxes. Some of them have employees, actual W-2s, actual payroll. That's what gets me, whoever built this didn't cut corners. They built it to survive an audit, which means they expected one.

I finally stop at nine at night with cold chamomile tea at my elbow and a number on my screen that has too many zeros to be a rounding error. Four point six billion dollars, minimum, cycled over eleven years. And every road, every single one, if you follow it far enough past the shell corporations and the nested trusts and the charitable foundations with names that fit, runs uphill to one signature.

Ashcroft. Lucian Ashcroft.

The next day, my sister calls while I'm sitting in my kitchen eating cereal for dinner like a graduate student.

"You sound weird," Olivia says. In the background someone pages a doctor to a room number. "Weird-happy or weird-bad? Because Mom thinks you moved to the mountains to have a breakdown in private."

"Tell Mom I'm having it in public. There's a bench on Main Street. Very scenic."

"Soph."

I laugh. It comes out cracked around the edges. "I found something at work."

"Found something how?"

"Found something like the biggest laundering operation I've ever touched, and I've touched some big ones." I set the bowl down. "Liv, this thing's older than my career. Somebody's been running it since I was in college."

She's quiet, and I hear a door swing shut on her end, the hospital noise dropping away. My sister has had twelve years learning how to sound calm while her stomach flips. "Who?"

"You wouldn't know him."

"Try me. I read."

"Then you'd know him." I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. "It's fine. I'm being careful. I'm doing this exactly by the book. Documentation, timestamps, chain of custody, the whole liturgy. Nobody's going to be able to say I got sloppy."

"Don't be a hero in a town with one traffic light," she says. "There's no trauma center. The nearest one's ninety minutes by helicopter and I checked, which should tell you where my head's at."

I promise her I'll be smart. It isn't a lie yet.

On Friday I walk to the café on the corner, my apartment has run out of both coffee and reasons to stay in it. Blackwood Ridge in October is honestly indecent, the maples have gone gold and red down the whole length of Main Street, the hardware store's got pumpkins stacked by the door, and someone's chalkboard sign advertises a cider donut like it's a moral obligation. I've lived here twenty-two days and half the shopkeepers know my name.

Amelia Rhodes is at the counter when I come in, waiting on two coffees, wearing the fleece vest with the town seal on it. She's the mayor. She's also, as far as I can tell, the person who unclogs the storm drains.

"Sophie Holt," she says, delighted, like she's been hoping I'd show. "You survived your first month. Nobody warned you about the deer, did they."

"Someone warned me about the deer."

"Someone lied about the deer. It's worse than that." She hands me one of the coffees, refuses my money with a look, and steers me toward the window. "How's the firm treating you? Tell me the truth, I'll pretend I didn't hear it."

"Busy." I take a sip. "Can I ask you something that's going to sound strange?"

"Those are my favorite kind."

"Ashcroft Holdings. What's the town's read on him?"

Amelia's face adjusts to something close to warmth. "He paid for the library roof. Didn't want the plaque, we put one up anyway, he had it moved to the basement." She shrugs. "Two winters ago the Kepler family's boy needed a transplant. Bills disappeared. Nobody ever said whose money it was and nobody had to."