Chapter Twenty-Seven Amelia

TWENTY-SEVEN

To: Amelia Collins ([email protected])

From: John Richardson ([email protected])

Dear Ms. Collins,

The Wyatt Foundation greatly appreciates your assistance and I look forward to seeing you at nine tomorrow morning.

I have attached another set of documents to this email for your perusal in advance of our meeting. They deal with the work our group did with oil refineries at the turn of the twentieth century. I am certain they will be of great importance to our file.

Very truly and sincerely yours,

J.H.C. Richardson, Esq, PhD

Amelia

When I got into work that morning Evelyn Anderson was already seated at the head of the large mahogany table in the thirty-second-floor conference room, elegant and unflappable in her wrinkle-free black pantsuit.

I was grateful she was there. I hated to admit it, but I was in so far over my head with this file I was at risk of drowning.

“Is the Wyatt CFO still set to come in at nine?” Evelyn, the most efficient multitasker I’d ever met, typed into her computer as she spoke. She was probably drafting an email to a different client as she waited for this one to arrive.

“Yes,” I confirmed. I set my briefcase on the table and unpacked my laptop. “My last email from John Richardson confirmed he’d be here at nine.”

“Good.” Evelyn rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, chin in hand. “I know I’d said I wanted you to present to the partners about this file, but after reviewing these documents and seeing what this organization is actually like, I’m having second thoughts.”

She motioned to the stacks of papers her assistant set up in the room for this meeting. As if their mere presence explained better than words could what she was trying to say.

I’d been looking forward to proving myself to the partners by presenting my work to them. But honestly? I was relieved. “I get it,” I said. I did. This was a terrible client and a probably unsalvageable file. What would I even have presented to the partners anyway?

“When Mr. Richardson comes in, we’ll talk with him one last time about what he needs to show us to remain our client. If he can’t comply by next week, we’re dropping this file,” she said. “I’ll tell him myself and take the heat for it if he gets upset. It’s the least I can do given what you’ve had to put up with the past month.”

I hated wasted effort more than just about anything else in the world. But Evelyn was right. From the firm’s perspective, better not to sink more resources into this than we already had.

I still didn’t even understand what Wyatt did .

“With both of us here, maybe we’ll finally get somewhere,” I said, trying to convey hope that I didn’t feel.

Ellen popped her head into the conference room carrying a tray of coffee mugs and a thermos of coffee. “Mr. Richardson’s here,” she said, setting it down in the center of the table. “Should I send him in?”

“Please.” Evelyn smoothed her hands down the front of her pants. “Send him in.”

A few moments later, a man who looked about sixty, with graying hair and wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose, strode into the room. He carried a large paper bag in his arms that was full nearly to bursting of what I could only assume were papers he’d brought for us.

My heart sank. This wasn’t going to be the quick meeting I’d hoped it would be. Or one that would bring us closer to any sort of clarity on this file.

Mr. Richardson set his bag down, then extended his hand for me to shake. “Ms. Collins,” he said, warmly. “So lovely to finally meet in person.”

“Mr. Richardson.” I shook his hand, the way I did with every client when greeting them. I startled, nearly gasping at how icy cold his touch was.

The only people I knew with a touch that cold were Reggie and Frederick. Spiky tendrils of suspicion went through me, but I shoved them aside.

He was old. Maybe he had bad circulation.

“Thank you again for meeting with us,” I said, still a bit unsettled as Mr. Richardson took the chair opposite mine. I began flipping through the nearest stack of papers. “As I told you, we hope that by chatting in person, we can clarify what we need from you and streamline this process.”

“That would be wonderful,” Mr. Richardson agreed. He hefted his giant bag onto the table and began rummaging through it. “Meeting today was an excellent idea, Ms. Collins. I apologize again for finding this process so bewildering.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Evelyn reassured him. “Tax filings are complicated. Making them more understandable is what we do.”

She wasn’t wrong that a part of our job was to make the IRS’s rules easier for our clients to understand. But after the headache the Wyatt Foundation had created for me, I felt at least a slight apology was warranted. I watched him with dread as he started pulling things from his bag that couldn’t possibly be relevant to his filing.

Like a plastic bag full of confetti. And a pamphlet from a blood donation facility south of downtown.

Wait.

A blood donation facility?

“I’m going to get some water,” I announced, thinking quickly. “Mr. Richardson, can I get you a glass of water while I’m in the kitchen?”

Mr. Richardson paused in his rummaging. He turned his eyes to me. “No, thank you,” he said, his tone even. “I don’t like water.”

Who didn’t like water? The suspicion that had begun creeping in during our handshake grew stronger. “How about a cookie?” I pressed. “My administrative assistant brought in a batch of chocolate chip cookies she baked last night. They’re delicious.”

He shook his head. “I don’t like cookies, either.”

“Mr. Richardson,” Evelyn cut in, “have you brought any financial statements or receipts from the past year? That’s all we need to see from you.”

“Apologies,” he said. “I need to dig through all this to find what I’m looking for. Aha!” he shouted suddenly, triumphant. “Here we are.”

He pulled out several sheets of paper and placed them on the table in front of Evelyn. He jabbed his finger at the stylized heading at the top of the page, which I couldn’t quite make out from where I sat.

Evelyn frowned. Whatever she was reading, she wasn’t happy about it. “Mr. Richardson, I don’t understand. Is your organization changing its name?”

“I realize this is not what I originally retained your firm for,” he said, sounding contrite. “But yes, we would like to change our name. More specifically, we would like to change the name by which the IRS recognizes us so that it matches the name we have been using informally for centuries.”

For centuries ?

Evelyn’s eyes went very wide. “I beg your pardon?” she asked. “Centuries?”

Mr. Richardson blinked at her several times before giving a little giggle and shaking his head. “How silly of me to misspeak like that.” He giggled again, nervously. “No organization has been around for centuries . What I meant to say was that we would like to change the name by which the IRS recognizes us to the name we have been going by informally for whatever length of time you wouldn’t find alarming.” He grinned at us, pleased with how he’d recovered from his fumble.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I slowly turned the papers he’d just handed Evelyn around so that the headings were easier for me to read.

At the top of the page, in enormous thirty-six-point font, were two words that had been emblazoned across my mind by that point.

The Collective

The room seemed to fall away. My blood roared in my ears.

The group that was after Reggie, and my terrible client, were the same people.

Well , I thought, my thoughts unspooling. That explains the frigid handshake. And the request to hold these meetings in the evening. And the seriously bizarre stuff they’ve been sending me.

I fought to stay calm so John Richardson wouldn’t realize I’d figured out who and what he was. How was this situation even possible? Why would vampires even care about something as mundane as nonprofit organizations and taxes? I got the impression that Frederick and Reggie didn’t have to worry about money. Why did The Collective?

I was distantly aware of Evelyn asking John Richardson additional questions. They probably had to do with the fact that nothing he’d just provided got us any closer to being able to file the Wyatt Foundation’s tax returns, but by that point I’d mostly stopped paying attention. The clock on the conference room wall showed only a few minutes had passed since John Richardson dropped his bombshell, but in those few minutes, the beginnings of a plan to save Reggie were firming up in my mind.

“Mr. Richardson,” I said. I had to act fast. “It won’t take us long to file the name-change paperwork with the IRS. Once that’s handled, though, we’ll need to meet one more time.” Evelyn shot me a bewildered look. She probably assumed we’d be closing this file after this meeting. I quickly added, “Just to tie up loose ends.”

If we were going to both wrap up this file and deal with The Collective, one more in-person meeting was essential. But first, I needed time to do more research.

“Of course,” Mr. Richardson said, smiling again. His relaxed demeanor showed he had no inkling that I was on to him. “I don’t suppose an evening meeting would work for you, next time? As I’ve indicated before, evenings are preferable for me.”

“No,” Evelyn said, bluntly. “We have a strict policy not to hold meetings after business hours.” This wasn’t true, but from the tight set of her jaw, it was clear Evelyn was no longer having it with this file. That was a relief, at least.

“Daytime, then,” Mr. Richardson agreed, after a beat. “I will send you some dates and times that work with my schedule.”

“Wonderful,” I said. My mind was racing. There were lots of things I needed to do as quickly as possible, but before I could do any of them, I needed to wrap up this meeting and get Mr. Richardson out of the building. “I think we’re done for now. Mr. Richardson, may I walk you to the elevator?”

·······

Frederick was pacing his living room, hands clasped behind his back, when I got to his apartment. Reggie was there, too, looking terrified. I’d texted them on my way over to explain what had happened. When he saw me, Reggie all but leapt from the leather chair he’d been sitting in and launched himself at me.

“Are you hurt? Did that asshole hurt you?”

Frederick stopped pacing and stared at him. “Expressing concern about someone else?” He shot me an amused glance. “My dear Amelia, what have you done to my terrible friend?”

I ignored him. “I’m fine,” I assured Reggie. “John Richardson had no idea who I was. At the end of the meeting, I thanked him for the documents he gave us and let him know we’d have the paperwork memorializing his organization’s name change filed soon.” I shrugged. “He left the building without fanfare and was open to meeting one last time to wrap up loose ends.”

Reggie seemed at least partially mollified. “I just can’t believe we didn’t see this coming.”

“See what coming?” I asked. “That my awful client and the group going after you were the same people? As far as I know, my firm doesn’t make a habit of representing vampires. The odds of The Collective being one of my clients had to be just about nonexistent.”

“Yes, but…” He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “You don’t understand. You could have been hurt . And it would have been my fault.”

My heart ached to see him blaming himself for this bizarre situation. “I was in no danger. John Richardson had no idea who I was, or that I had any connection to you.” Thinking back to the night Reggie and I first met, I added, “You would have been really proud of how well I pretended in that meeting today.”

That earned a smile from him. “I always knew you had it in you.”

I blushed at the praise. “Anyway, if anyone’s in any danger of something, it’s their nonsense nonprofit.” I looked to Frederick. “Your lead on the blood bank break-ins was helpful, but taking them down through taxes is the immediate key to getting The Collective off Reggie’s back.”

Frederick peered at me. “What do you mean?”

“At best, they’re a walking audit risk,” I explained. “I mean, they don’t even know the difference between an I-9, a W-4, and a 990, for god’s sake, despite me having spent the better part of the past month trying to explain it to them.” I shook my head. “The IRS is on the cusp of yanking their 501(c)(3) status no matter what my firm manages to put together for them. And honestly? With what a disaster their record-keeping has been, I wouldn’t be surprised if they owe a pile of back taxes so huge they’ll never dig themselves out from under it.”

Reggie let out a quiet moan. “You’re so hot when you talk taxes,” he breathed.

Frederick cleared his throat. “Focus, Reginald,” he chastised.

Reggie glared at his friend. Then he sighed and reluctantly moved away from me. “Fine,” he muttered.

“I’m still formulating a plan for how to take them down,” I said.

“I want to be a part of it,” Reggie insisted.

I patted his arm. “You will be. I promise. But in the meantime, is there anything The Collective is afraid of?” I asked. “Anyone who could talk some sense into them? Once I gain access to my firm’s GuideStar account, I suspect I’ll find all I need by way of research by looking up the Wyatt Foundation. Since the IRS still recognizes them as a nonprofit, they’ll be in there, along with a lot of their financial data. But I’ll feel better about it if it’s not only me in the room for this meeting.” The thought of threatening them all by myself was honestly terrifying. “Who do you know that’s scary that would be willing to meet with them with me?”

“I can’t think of anyone The Collective is frightened of,” Frederick said. “They are essentially coddled children who have been given the gift of immortality. Even though they have become a thorn in the side of the vampiric community, people remember who they used to be and tend to treat them indulgently.”

“Even when they do things like this?” That was hard to wrap my mind around.

Frederick gave Reggie a sideways glance. “How do I put this delicately?”

Reggie sighed. “Just say it.”

“Reginald has not endeared himself to many over the centuries,” Frederick said, carefully. “Even if people were inclined to put a stop to The Collective’s nonsense, they wouldn’t do it on his account.”

“Okay,” I said. “What about something that frightens all vampires?”

Frederick and Reggie looked at each other.

“Zelda?” Reggie suggested.

Frederick shuddered. “God’s thumbs. Not her.”

“Exactly.” Reggie snapped his fingers. “It’s pretty fair to say most of us are frightened of her, right?”

“Who is Zelda?” I asked.

“A witch who’s been deeply misunderstood over the centuries,” Reggie said.

Frederick scoffed. “Hardly. Her preferred nickname is Grizelda the Terrible ,” he said. “She came up with it herself. She used to keep a cauldron in her front yard to make it easier for her to cook children.”

“An urban legend,” Reggie protested.

Frederick leveled a stare at him. “I think you’re letting your history with her cloud your judgment.”

My ears perked up as a hot stab of something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy went through me. “What history?”

When Reggie answered, he spoke so reluctantly it was like the words were being pulled out of him against his will. “Zelda and I used to tag-team practical jokes on some of the more annoying members of the community.” And then, with a murderous glare at Frederick, he added, “All rumors that Zelda and I were anything more than friends are rubbish.”

I glanced at Frederick to check his reaction. He looked unconvinced but said nothing.

My cheeks flamed. Which was ridiculous. Even if the rumors Reggie had just alluded to weren’t rubbish, the man was hundreds of years old. Expecting him not to have had any lovers at all before me was unreasonable.

I didn’t have to like it, though.

“You think The Collective is afraid of her?” I asked Frederick, trying to steer my thoughts to safer ground.

“I can’t pretend to know what goes on in their heads,” he said. “But yes, probably. Most of us are.”

I pondered that. “Any chance there’s a passage on her in The Annals ? Maybe there’s something in there we could use to scare The Collective into leaving Reggie alone.”

Frederick’s face lit up. “ The Annals ?” Once again, he reminded me so much of my dad on those rare instances he got asked a question about history, it was uncanny. “You may peruse them if you’d like. I must go run a time-sensitive errand for Cassie, otherwise I’d stay here and review them with you.” He glanced at Reggie. “Could you show her where I store the books?”

Reggie nodded. “Of course. Go take care of your fiancée.”

Frederick’s eyes were very bright. “Thank you.” And then to me, he said, “I will return in a few hours. In the meantime, please do not disturb Cassie under any circumstances. She is sleeping and must rest for the next several days.”

My eyebrows shot up. What sort of medical condition made someone need to sleep for days? “Is she okay?”

“She will be,” Frederick said. His eyes drifted over to Reggie, as though seeking confirmation.

“She will be,” Reggie agreed, reassuring. “I promise, Freddie.”

“Right. Right,” Frederick said, his voice so quiet it was like he was speaking to himself. And then, to me, he said, “Reginald can fill you in on the details, if you like.”

The moment he left the apartment, I rounded on Reggie. “What’s wrong with Cassie?”

“They got engaged last night,” he explained. “As part of it, Freddie…” He trailed off and rubbed at the back of his neck. “He turned her. When she wakes up, Cassie will be a vampire.”

My mouth fell open. Even though I’d known this was going to happen, there was nothing that could have prepared me for the reality of it.

Cassie—a person I’d known most of my life—was a vampire. I saw the way she looked at Frederick, and I wasn’t so dead inside I couldn’t recognize real love when I saw it on another person’s face…but even still. The idea that Cassie had chosen this for herself to be with her lover forever was very difficult to process.

“Wow,” I said. It was the understatement of the year.

“Yeah,” Reggie agreed. “I don’t pretend to exactly understand what it is they see in each other, but I’ve seen centuries worth of guys in love and guys not in love. I know what they have is the real deal.”

“Sam is going to lose his goddamn mind,” I said.

“Probably. But that’s something for Cassie to navigate when she wakes up. It’s not on you.”

“Won’t it be, though? Sam’s my brother.” Not only that, he had an incredibly black-and-white worldview. Much as I had had for most of my life. Even if I never made the same choice Cassie made, Sam would probably disapprove of my current situation if he knew how far Reggie and I had already taken things.

Reggie must have recognized how distressed I was getting, because no sooner did I think how nice it would be for him to hold me than he was out of his chair and I was in his arms.

“One step at a time,” he murmured against the top of my head, before pressing a gentle kiss there for good measure. “You can worry about Sam and Cassie when it becomes an issue. There’s no point in worrying about it now.”

I burrowed into his chest. “Worrying about things way too far in advance is kind of my thing, though.”

He chuckled. “You should work on that.” He paused, then pulled back so he could look into my eyes. “Have you considered bullet journaling?”