I looked toward my father's photograph on the office wall.
“I don't know what to think.”
Danielle softened her voice.
“Then don't decide until you've asked.”
I sat quietly.
Finally, I nodded.
“Okay.”
Vanessa called an hour later.
I stared at her name on the screen.
Let it ring twice.
Then answered.
“Hey.”
Her voice was cheerful.
“Good morning, Marcus.”
“Morning.”
She hesitated.
“Everything okay?”
I looked toward the bank letter.
“No.”
There was a pause.
“What happened?”
I took a breath.
“Your company owns my debt.”
Silence.
Then Vanessa spoke carefully.
“What?”
“Northstar. A subsidiary connected with Northstar, anyway.”
She didn't answer immediately.
I continued.
“I have five business days to respond to a new default demand. Your people say the insurance is wrong, even though it's been paid.”
Vanessa's voice changed.
“Marcus, I didn't know.”
I looked toward the window.
“That's what Danielle said.”
She took a breath.
“Can you send me the name of the entity involved?”
I hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because I need to understand what's happening.”
I stared at the letter.
Then read the name.
Cascadia Asset Recovery Holdings.
Vanessa became quiet.
For several seconds, I could hear papers moving.
Then she whispered, “Arthur.”
My chest tightened.
“Who?”
She took a slow breath.
“Arthur Bell. He's responsible for a group of distressed-asset investments connected with several subsidiaries.”
I looked toward my father's photograph.
The name sounded familiar.
Very familiar.
Then I remembered.
Arthur Bell had visited our garage when I was a teenager.
He wore expensive suits and a gold wristwatch.
He once offered my father money for the property.
Dad told him to leave.
I hadn't thought about the encounter in years.
Now the memory returned with startling clarity.
I gripped the telephone.
“Bell?”
Vanessa sounded concerned.
“You know him?”
“He knew my father.”
There was a pause.
“How?”
I looked toward the old service bay.
“He wanted our property thirty years ago.”
Vanessa didn't answer.
Then she said, “I'm coming over.”
I shook my head.
“Vanessa—”
“I won't bring anybody from the investment group. I want to understand what happened.”
I considered refusing.
Then looked toward the letter again.
“Okay.”
She arrived in the Firebird forty minutes later.
This time, she wore tailored black trousers, a white blouse, and a long wool coat.
Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail.
She looked beautiful.
But she also looked worried.