Page 104 of My Vampire Plus-One

Very truly and sincerely yours,

J.H.C. Richardson, Esq, PhD

Amelia

When I got into workthat 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 hecan’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 Wyattdid.

“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 Reggieand 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 aslightapology 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.

Ablood donationfacility?

“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?”

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