The Guesthouse Books Showed Where My Missing Payments Went

I hired an accountant named Dev Sorrell to trace the transfers.

"I need facts I can stand behind," I told him. "Even the ones that don't help me."

He nodded. "Then bring the ugly receipts too."

We worked at a plain table in his office. My design binder lay between his calculator and a box of bank records. He used yellow tabs. Mine were blue.

The room smelled of burnt coffee. It felt safer than my house.

The guesthouse had money coming in from advance bookings, reopening deposits, and its remaining working funds. Some expenses were late. Alma had covered $86 in cleaning supplies herself.

Dev checked every loan disbursement against its invoice. The $286,000 had gone into the building. No payment had gone toward my clothes, our house, or a vacation.

"That matters," he said. "They called this family spending. The trail says construction loan."

The $42,000 took longer.

Yvette supplied a list of expenses she claimed to have paid. Dev asked for bills and proof of payment. Some entries went back seven years. Two appeared twice.

For $31,500, there were no receipts at all.

The remaining $10,500 had already been reimbursed from another account.

"She may find more records," Dev said. "For now, none of these four transfers is supported."

I liked him for leaving room for proof.

Mara sent the findings to the company's lawyer and requested the money's return. She also served a formal notice of default for the overdue interest.

My next message came from Alma.

Could we talk somewhere off the property?

We met at a small park while clouds dragged across the hills. She carried a grocery bag full of folded towels.

"Those yours?" I asked.

"They were headed home with me to wash. Laundry account got put on hold."

I showed her the unpaid supply bill in my file.

"I'll get this to the lawyer," I said. "Keep every receipt."

"Am I going to lose my job?"

"I can't promise you won't. I'm asking them to keep the place open and pay the staff."

Her shoulders fell, then settled.

"I can use the truth."

She told me Yvette had announced that I had frozen the guesthouse accounts.

I had done no such thing. I had no account access and no court order. The laundry company had stopped service because its bill wasn't paid.

"She told us to ask you for our checks," Alma said.

I looked at the towels, the neat stacks and worn hems. Yvette had found another basket to put in my arms.

Mara filed a lawsuit in Garland County Circuit Court. It sought payment, enforcement of the mortgage, and protection against a transfer that broke the agreement. She asked for a prompt hearing on keeping the property's income and records safe.

"The judge may order less than we request," she warned. "Bring evidence of what is happening, not just what you fear."

We brought the missed payments, Dev's report, the proposed sale statement, and the unpaid operating bills. Alma agreed to provide her receipts and tell what she had seen.

I went back to work between meetings.

A small lodge west of town needed a plan for rooms that smelled damp after rain. I sent an estimate for $9,600. Then I checked my email five times, angry that Yvette's words had followed me into my own office hours.

Ellis called that night.

"She wants me to move the deposits."

I stood up beside the motel bed.

"Where?"

"A new account. She says lawyers won't hold up money they can't find."

"Have you moved anything?"

"No."

"Then don't. Call the company lawyer. Keep the message."

"If I give you that text, she'll never forgive me."

I closed my eyes. I had heard so many versions of that sentence. If he corrected a story, refused a demand, or closed a door, his mother might never forgive him.

"If you hide it," I said, "what do you expect from me?"

He said he didn't know.

For once, he let that answer stand.

I wrote down the call's time and sent Mara a summary. She told me not to seek company records through any account I wasn't allowed to use. Ellis would need to provide his own messages through counsel.

At seven the next morning, someone knocked on my motel door.

Ellis stood outside with a black tote bag. His eyes were red. In the bag were company files he had brought for the lawyers.

On top lay a printed text from his mother.

Move the deposits today. Delete this after you read it.