CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The numbers on Sarah Ramsey's screen had started to blur.
She blinked, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and reached for the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.
The mug—a ceramic thing printed with "World's Okayest Accountant"—was a gift from her sister, meant as a joke, but Sarah had adopted it with the ironic sincerity of someone who knew she was considerably better than okay.
Her client list had tripled in the past eighteen months.
The feature in I Love Duluth magazine had brought in more business than she'd ever anticipated. World's okayest, indeed.
Her office occupied a corner of the third floor in a building on Superior Street that had once been a department store, back when department stores still existed.
The space was small but well-appointed—a mahogany desk she'd found at an estate sale, two leather chairs for clients, a window that looked out over the street where pedestrians hurried past with their collars turned up against the February cold.
Sarah had painted the walls a soft sage green and hung her CPA certificate in a frame that cost more than the certificate itself.
Image mattered. She'd learned that early.
The phone rang, pulling her attention from the Peterson file she'd been wrestling with since nine o'clock.
"Ramsey Accounting, this is Sarah."
"Ms. Ramsey?" The voice on the other end was male, slightly rough, carrying the particular tension of someone who'd been working up the courage to make this call. "I'm hoping you can help me. I'm in a significant financial situation and I need advice. Professional advice."
Sarah straightened in her chair, her mind automatically shifting into client-acquisition mode. New business was always welcome, even when her schedule was packed to bursting. "I'd be happy to discuss your situation. Can you tell me a bit about what you're dealing with?"
"It's complicated." A pause, the sound of breathing on the line. "I've made some mistakes with my taxes—nothing illegal, but I'm worried I might be facing an audit. Some investments that didn't pan out the way I expected. I need someone who can look at everything and tell me how bad it really is."
"That's exactly the kind of work I do." Sarah pulled up her calendar on the computer, scanning the blocks of color that represented her day.
Back-to-back meetings until five, then a stack of returns that needed to be filed before the fifteenth.
"I should let you know, though—my schedule is pretty full today.
The earliest I could fit you in would be sometime next week. "
"Next week?" The disappointment in his voice was palpable. "I was really hoping to talk to someone sooner. The anxiety is—" He broke off, laughed a little. "Sorry. I know that sounds dramatic. It's just been keeping me up at night."
Sarah understood that particular brand of financial anxiety better than most. She'd seen it countless times—the sleepless nights, the stomach-churning dread, the way money problems could consume every waking thought until they felt like physical weight pressing down on your chest. It was part of why she'd gone into this line of work.
Numbers she could fix. Numbers made sense.
"I wish I could help you sooner," she said, and meant it. "But I'm completely booked through the end of the day."
"What about after hours?" The question came quickly, almost eagerly. "I know it's an unusual request, but I'd be happy to meet you somewhere convenient. A coffee shop, maybe? I could buy you dinner, even. Whatever works for your schedule."
Sarah hesitated. After-hours meetings weren't unheard of in her line of work—plenty of clients had day jobs that made traditional office hours impossible.
But there was something in the man's voice that gave her pause.
Not threatening, exactly. Just... intent.
Focused in a way that felt slightly too personal for a first conversation about tax problems.
Still, she reminded herself, desperate clients often sounded desperate. That was kind of the point.
"A coffee shop might work," she said slowly. "There's a place called Brewster's on Third Avenue—do you know it?"
"I can find it."
"I could meet you there around five-thirty, once I'm done with my last appointment. Would that work?"
"That would be perfect." The relief in his voice was unmistakable. "Thank you, Ms. Ramsey. I really appreciate you making time for me."
"Of course. Can I get your name for my records?"
A pause. Just a heartbeat too long.
"I'd rather discuss that in person, if that's all right. I'm a fairly private person, and with everything going on..." He trailed off. "I hope you understand."
Sarah's pen hovered over her notepad, waiting for letters that weren't coming.
The request was unusual—most clients were eager to establish their identity, to become a person rather than just a voice on the phone.
But unusual wasn't the same as suspicious.
Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he'd seen his name in the news for something and didn't want to prejudice her opinion.
Maybe he was just one of those people who preferred face-to-face interaction.
"That's fine," she said, though a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that it wasn't, not really. "I'll see you at Brewster's at five-thirty. I'll be the one with the laptop bag and the permanent look of tax-season exhaustion."
He laughed at that—a genuine sound, warm and almost charming. "I'll keep an eye out. And Ms. Ramsey?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means to me."
The line went dead before she could respond.
Sarah set the phone down and stared at it for a moment, turning the conversation over in her mind.
Something about it nagged at her—the anonymity, the urgency, the way he'd latched onto the first available opportunity even though it meant meeting in the evening, away from her office.
But she was probably overthinking it. The magazine feature had made her a minor local celebrity, at least in certain circles.
Maybe he'd read the article and felt like he already knew her.
Maybe that was why he'd called her specifically, out of all the accountants in Duluth.
Making Numbers Beautiful. The headline had been the editor's idea, not hers, but she'd grown to appreciate its cheese. It certainly brought in clients.
She turned back to the Peterson file, pushing the strange phone call to the back of her mind.
The numbers waited, patient and logical, and she lost herself in them the way she always did—the familiar rhythm of debits and credits, assets and liabilities, the elegant mathematics of someone else's financial life.
Outside her window, the February afternoon wore on. Pedestrians continued their hurried parade down Superior Street, collars up, breath fogging in the cold. A few snowflakes began to drift down from the gray sky, catching the light before dissolving on the sidewalk.
Sarah didn't notice any of it. She was already deep in the next set of figures, her mind consumed by the puzzle of making numbers behave.
At five-thirty, she would go to Brewster's. She would meet a man whose name she didn't know, whose face she'd never seen, who had called her out of the blue with a story about financial anxiety and sleepless nights.
It was a public place. There would be other people around—other customers, baristas, the usual evening crowd getting their caffeine fix on the way home from work. Nothing could happen in a coffee shop.
Nothing bad ever happened in coffee shops.