“Mrs. Callaway,” he said, “I think there’s more you need to see.”
I glanced around my apartment, half-packed boxes stacked by the wall, winter light on the floorboards, the bassinet still waiting in the corner.
“What kind of more?”
A pause.
“The kind that made me ask to meet in person.”
It wasn’t relief in his voice.
It was fear.
Part 6
We met at a diner in Norwalk because apparently every important turn in my life now happened under fluorescent lights next to a coffee machine that had seen better decades.
Tobias was younger than I remembered from office events. Early thirties, neat haircut, tired eyes. He kept checking the front windows like he expected Nathan to come through them.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he said.
He slid a manila folder across the table.
Inside were transfer records. Entity registration documents. Wire confirmations. A spreadsheet printout with initials and dates in Tobias’s tidy assistant handwriting.
I knew what I was looking at within five seconds.
Nathan had started moving money.
Major money.