The Accountant Asked Why Seventy-Two Shelters Had Lost Their Names

Laurel Voss had a small office near Douglas Avenue, above a shop that repaired lamps. I climbed the stairs holding my document box against my coat.

She was forty-eight, a white American woman with pale lashes and a blunt brown bob. Her desk had no piles. Even her spare paper clips sat in rows.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"I already had two cups."

"Then water. We can be upset without being shaky."

I put the signed duplicate between us.

She turned each page by its edge. When she reached page eleven, she went back to the definitions at the front.

"Who owns the drawings?" she asked.

"I do. Flint Creek has a limited license to use them."

"Who may change the payment account?"

"Me. In a signed instruction."

"Has anyone else ever had that power?"

"Kamran picked up checks when I was caring for my mother. That was all."

She wrote that down without making a face.

I liked her for that. I had spent years watching people decide whether my husband deserved the benefit of another doubt.

"My first fee is $2,400," she said. "That covers the demand and the first review. We'll discuss more work before I bill it."

I paid from my personal savings. Kamran did not know the balance because he called small accounts a waste of time.

The balance had come from small repair drawings and design checks I did between caring for my mother. I had kept the invoices even when the jobs paid only $300.

"Do I need his approval to hire you?" I asked.

Laurel looked up.

"You're the client named on this letter."

Laurel copied the agreement, then handed the original back.

"This stays with you."

"Can they say their copy was lost?"

"They can say it. Yours has both signatures. We also have the old payment history and Evan's email."

She did not promise a win. She showed me what we could prove.

The license required a quarterly list of sites and a royalty for each installed system. It allowed Flint Creek to grant sublicenses, but each one had to keep my audit rights. If an audit found more than five percent missing, Flint Creek had to pay reasonable audit costs.

"We ask for records," Laurel said. "We don't start with accusations."

She called Evan with me beside her.

"Fariba!" he said. "How's the retirement?"

I pressed my hands flat.

"I'm not retired."

There was a pause.

"Kamran said you wanted everything through the new office."

"What new office?" Laurel asked.

"Prairie Meridian Consulting. They sent the banking change."

Laurel wrote the name in square letters.

"Please send the instruction and every statement since the first twenty-four shelters. Fariba has retained me under section eleven."

"I'll have to ask Kamran."

"Is he a party to this agreement?"

"No, but he manages the development."

"Then please ask your own counsel about your duty to the licensor."

He promised to call back. Laurel sent the formal audit notice by email and certified mail, using the addresses in the contract. It asked that related records be kept, including payment instructions and sublicense schedules.

The review could begin after ten business days' notice.

"He'll know by lunch," I said.

"Probably. Where will you stay tonight?"

"My sister's."

I called a family lawyer from the stairs and booked a consultation. Then I went home while Kamran was at a site meeting. I packed clothes, medicine, and the brass scissors my father had used to cut model parts.

I photographed the bare drafting room. On the new guest bed lay a cushion that said Welcome.

My sister helped carry my things to her car.

"You can cry here," she said when we reached her kitchen.

"I know. I need to finish something first."

I wrote down dates. The room cleanup. The last payment. The dinner. The message on his phone. I kept things I had seen apart from things I guessed.

By three, Kamran had called seven times.

I answered the eighth.

"You hired an accountant?"

"I asked for my records."

"Do you know what a delay could cost me?"

"Do you know how many shelters use my drawings?"

"Those aren't yours anymore."

"Show me the sale agreement."

He breathed hard into the phone.

"Mara has the files. You should have asked her."

I wrote that sentence down after he hung up.

At five, Evan emailed the account change. It carried my typed name under a pasted image of my signature. The bank account belonged to Prairie Meridian.

Laurel forwarded a public company filing. Kamran and Mara were listed as its two managers.

The last attachment was a one-page form titled Permanent Waiver Of Audit Rights.

Someone had signed my name beside a date when I had been sitting in my mother's hospital room.