Page 51 of Riding Jamie

“I’ve still got stacks of paperwork from Peter Wallace that no one can make heads or tails of,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re all pretty damn sure he put all the money into accounts offshore, but he was careful with it, and his wife’s a big-shot lawyer. None of it ever even went to court because she got the cases thrown out. Bastard’s still walking free, and there’s nothing any of us can do.”

My brows crease in frustration, and I clench my jaw. It can’t just be something none of us can even try to fix. I can’t accept that.

I won’t.

“You still have the paperwork?” I ask. “Can I look at it?”

My dad looks up at me in surprise, but he pushes out of his chair and heads toward his office nonetheless.

“If you want,” he says. “Don’t know what you’re going to do with ten year old bank statements, but go for it.”

He rounds his desk and opens one of the cabinets on the back wall. File after file makes its way onto his desk, and I stare in shock as the pile grows steadily larger. All of this, and still no one can find anything to pin on the guy?

I pull one of the files closer to me. The folder it’s in is stiff with age and probably about a year from crumbling into dust along with the pages inside. I leaf through them carefully, frowning as I check dates against deposit amounts and withdrawals.

“Jesus,” I huff, shaking my head as I reach for another folder. “He really made a mess of this, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” my dad says gruffly. “He was good, I’ll give him that. Even David was confused about whether or not he authorized some of those withdrawals. They were in a tough spot with money, and Peter was supposed to be taking care of the books so David could keep the farm running. He fucked with a lot of good people.”

My lip curls in a sneer, and I trace down one of the lines, scanning through the account numbers. Surely, he had to fuck upsomewhere. I can’t just give up and let the guy get away with this, especially if he’s still trying to meddle with Oakley’s family.

“What’s this account?” I ask, tapping at one of the lines.

The account number doesn’t match any of the ones in the other file, and it’s not on the other pages in this file, either. Only one deposit was made into it, but it was for nearly ten grand. It’s in the middle of a bunch of other transactions on the same day, seemingly innocuous other than the amount. My dad leans over my shoulder, a look of confusion on his face.

“I don’t know what any of them are really,” he says. “I closed most of them after he left town in case he had access to anything. There’s a list of all the accounts here somewhere, let me see if I can find it.”

I nod, turning my attention back to the pages. I pull several more files toward me, now searching for that account specifically. I find it in three separate files, all of the records showing large deposits being made in the middle of the day.

My dad breaks my concentration by shoving a page beneath my nose before I can continue scouring through the other files.

“This should have all the account details.”

I snag it from his hands, my blood pumping hot in my veins. I don’t know what exactly it is, but I feel like I’m stumbling closer and closer to something important. There’s the business account for the circuit training my dad does, his personal account, a few savings accounts that have been opened and closed through the years, and my account.

My account?

I never opened a bank account that was associated with my dad. And the account number doesn’t match mine, either.

I look over to the date it was opened, my eyes blowing wide when I see it.

“Dad.” My voice is shaky, whisper-quiet, and my hand trembles as I trace the line of text. “Dad, this…I don’t know what it is, butthisisn’t right.”

He leans over my shoulder, his frown deepening in concentration.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks.

I dig my finger into the date, black and white print on a brittle piece of printer paper. My heart pounds in my chest at the prospect of finding somethingnew.

“Look at the date,” I say. “This account is in my name, but it was opened when I wassix.”

He looks up sharply, blinking in confusion.

“I didn’t open an account when you were a kid,” he says. “Neither did your mom.”

My heart rate triples in the course of a second, and my vision goes blurry for half a second as I force myself to suck a breath in. It can’t be this easy, but maybe this is a step toward uncovering something. Even if it doesn’t put Peter Wallace in jail, maybe it’ll be enough of a threat to keep him away from Oakley’s family.

“I only went through five of those files,” I say, nodding toward the stack of papers on the desk. “Just from the deposits I saw, there’s almost seventy grand in that account. Who knows how many more deposits there are in the other files. What if he was hiding in plain sight this whole time? I bet if I look through the Montgomery’s paperwork, there’ll be an account in one of their names that isn’t theirs, too.”

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