Bequeathed

Chapter Twenty-Three: Who Is Andrew Harris?

Claire transfers the payment to Andrew as soon as she arrives at her apartment. Her laptop is resting on her granite countertop next to salt and pepper shakers and soy sauce. The kitchen, the rest of the house, reflects Claire's limbo. Each time she ratchets up the courage to leave, dig roots into her new life, she remembers her old life. The harassment, the death. Claire won’t allow herself to get comfortable, not yet. Not until she can undo whatever scheme William sets in motion.

So she lives in limbo. Because she won’t surrender her new life either. The boxes towers will remain in her living and bedroom. She’ll continue to rummage through cardboard each time she has to search for an outfit. The house must exist as it is to remind her that she is on her way out. On her way to something far better.

Claire refreshes her screen continually, waiting for Andrew’s email to come in. She sends another message to Andrew confirming the transfer of her payment. This time, she attaches the receipt to the message, highlighting the amount transferred. Sent, is Andrew’s reply. Claire stabs her laptop, watching the screen as it reloads; she taps the granite counter with the blush-pink nails of the hand that rests on the counter. “Come on. Come on.” Claire opens Andrew’s emails, then digs into the attached files. She speed reads the first time. She slows down, reads more slowly. None of this makes sense to her. Why did Andrew think any of this was useful? Claire was expecting murder allegations, skeletons spilling out of closets. All she sees are unpaid invoices, receipts for a clothing company by the name of “Alfred’s.” A little contrived. A name more fit for a restaurant.

Claire looks more closely. William James is the signatory of most of the receipts. There are more invoices than receipts though. Unless Andrew was unable to source the rest, it seems Alfred’s is operating in the red…or is it black? Claire shakes her head, letting loose her uncertainty. This is why she pursued English Lit and not a business degree. She didn’t try to carve out a place for herself at White Textiles because numbers aren’t her thing. Numbers aren’t her thing but she has seen enough to know that Alfred’s is a struggling business. Now Claire has a motive. William is struggling financially. He should have used the money from the first installment to inject some capital into his business, not kill her for what isn’t his.

Claire checks the dates. The invoices are much older than the receipts. Five million dollars did do William well. Or at least some of it. It seems that he has used some of the money to revive his business. Claire searches another folder emailed by Andrew. It’s a dated newspaper article.

Breaking News: Your Favourite Children’s Store, Exploiting Children…

Claire peruses the article. Gabriel’s Closet, the leading children’s clothing store, has been accused of setting up sweatshops overseas, the article reads. It goes on to detail the conditions in which twelve, thirteen, and fourteen-year-olds are forced to work. The long hours in hot factories. All for cents on the dollar.

Gabrial’s Closet. Claire remembers the company, she had a few of their clothing as a child. She remembers when the company shut down, but at the time she was too young to care why. Gabrial. Gabrial. Claire tries to recall where she has heard that name before. She returns to the documents of the email that she has already read. “Gabrial!” she shouts while reading a receipt. Gabrial James is the signator on the receipts not signed by William. “His brother,” Claire mumbles to herself. The brother that conducted her wedding - her first wedding. Claire steps away from her computer, walking backward until her body makes contact with the kitchen island. She leans against it. During their first marriage together, William never once spoke to the specifics of his family business. He always said he had to do his part. He had to play his part to ensure the proper running of the business. He never got into the nature of that business, nor did he detail the part he had to play. He didn’t disclose that the business wasn’t in fact functioning properly. She supposes she understands his unwillingness to disclose the truth to her when she was lavishing in her wealth.

“How does any of this help me?”

Claire walks back to the screen, digging further into the information Andrew has provided. She sees a police report. Claire holds her breath as she reads.

“This has nothing to do with William!” Claire screams. Her scream filled with anguish and frustration. She feels as if her life and freedom were handed to her on a golden platter, then, as she reached for it, the platter toppled, spilling all that it had carried.

If Andrew included it, the report must mean something.

Claire reads again, paying keen attention to the minutiae of the report. She soaks in every detail. The police report does actually have something to do with her family’s company - White Textiles. Fabric was stolen and a shipping container destroyed. The guy who was arrested for the theft and arson is a repeat offender - armed robbery, assault and battery. It’s all on his record. Claire considers for a moment the implications of having all this information on her laptop. Can she be charged with something? She doesn’t even want to consider how Andrew came by all this information.

“Now I know why his fees are through the roof.” Claire picks at her lower lip with the nail of her index finger. “What does this have to do with William?” If this guy has anything to do with William, Andrew is right, Claire is playing with fire. But is it truly a risk if she has already been burned?

Claire rushes to her room and retrieves one of her burner phones from the drawer of her nightstand.

“Hello, William, it’s Claire. Would you like to meet for lunch?”

What? Are you crazy? Didn’t you have the cops drag me from your place? Now you want to go out?

“Give me a chance to apologize. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Listen, Princess. I don’t have time for your games. Just send over my share of your auntie’s money.

“It will be my treat. Please. I’m begging here.” Claire giggles, forcing herself to be flirtatious. “Give me a chance to make it up to you.”

Fine. But you’re paying.

“Meet me at Best Burgers.”

No such luck, princess. If you’re paying, you’re taking me someplace fancy. Like Cho’s.