Keoni Followed A Maintenance Invoice To A House Above Town

Keoni spread my papers across a folding table in his office near the library. He made room for each page before he touched the next.

He was forty-one, a Native Hawaiian man with a close beard and the slow, careful manner of someone repairing a net. His window was open to the sound of tires on wet pavement.

“Start with what you know,” he said.

“I made these recordings. I didn't sell this one.”

“Good. Put that in one sentence. Date it.”

I did.

Then he pointed at the receipt.

“This says equipment service. Their email says sound license. We ask why.”

He did not call Gavin a thief. He did not promise to get everything back. He gave me a yellow pad and asked me to write down every client I remembered.

There were eleven.

We called them using numbers from my old agreements. I spoke first, then gave Keoni permission to ask about payments.

By noon, seven had sent records. Three needed more time. One had closed its office for the day.

All seven had received new payment instructions.

“Did you call me before changing the account?” I asked a film producer.

“We called the number on the new sheet.”

It was Gavin's number.

My old rider lay under my hand. It named my number. The change had been neat enough to pass a quick glance.

Keoni placed the two sheets side by side.

“The old agreement matters,” he said. “So does what they actually did. Keep both.”

One client asked if this meant I planned to cancel their film.

“You licensed the sound properly,” I said. “I want the payment record, not your film.”

Keoni nodded for me to keep talking.

By the end of the call, the producer had offered to send the signed agreement from his own files. It matched mine. Gavin could change his copy. He couldn't reach every drawer.

The public company filing for Tidefast named Gavin as its manager. Its mailing address was a rented box. There was no great maze of companies. Just a dull name where nobody expected music.

“He thought this made it untraceable?” I asked.

“He thought you wouldn't ask for the pages.”

I looked down at my notes. Three strokes. A rest. My hand had drawn them beside a column of dates.

The Harbor Lantern bookkeeper joined us on a video call. Her name was Ruth, and she had already stopped the collection from going into any exhibits.

“We haven't delivered a single copy to a museum,” she said. “We're keeping the files sealed while we sort this out.”

“Who offered it?” I asked.

“Your manager. Gavin Mercer.”

“Did anyone else handle the files?”

“A transfer account. I'll send the full packet.”

She sent a license bearing a picture of my signature. She also sent Gavin's invoice and the message that came with the audio.

The message said the masters were cleared for permanent sale.

I felt my jaw lock.

“That wasn't his to promise.”

“Show me the agreement that limits him,” Keoni said.

I slid it across.

He read the page twice.

“This helps. You'll need a lawyer for the next part.”

“I have seventeen hundred left after paying you.”

“Then we'll make the first meeting useful.”

We built a folder with five tabs: my agreement with Gavin, the signed client riders, the registry, the false license, and a payment list.

The records received so far showed $96,700 routed to Tidefast. Keoni marked that number in pencil.

“Partial,” he said. “A number should tell you what it includes.”

Gavin called at two.

“Why is Ruth asking about our business?”

“Because she bought something I never offered.”

“You're being dramatic. It's a sample package.”

“The license says permanent sale.”

Silence came down the line.

Then he said, “You need to come home.”

“I'm working.”

“With whose money?”

I ended the call. My hands shook so badly that Keoni moved my water glass away from the paper.

“You can take a minute,” he said.

“I don't want him to hear me take it.”

“He isn't here.”

I sat until I could breathe without counting.

Ruth's packet held one more page: a delivery form. It named the house above Wainaku as the equipment site. Gavin had requested that address on the same email thread as the license invoice.

I recognized the house when Keoni drove me past it. Blue steps. A breadfruit tree. My car under the carport.

A woman came out holding a pot with a dead fern.

She saw me looking at the car.

“Are you here about the sound equipment?” she asked.

“I'm Mireille Augustin.”

The pot dropped an inch in her hands.

“He said you were separated.”

Keoni stayed beside the car while I said, “We aren't.”

She looked back at the open door.

“My name is Dana,” she said. “I think you need to see what's in our spare room.”