Chapter 3: Unraveling the Ledger

I rode away from the boardwalk’s peeling paint and carnival clamor, nerves jangling like an unstrung marimba. The office waited in the shadow of an aging hotel, its aging sign spelling out VANE INVESTIGATIONS in letters half faded. The streetcar stop was at the end of the block. My thoughts spun as I stalked the familiar path, as I clambered up the rickety side stairs quickly. Once inside, I brewed coffee strong enough to strip paint and settled behind the desk.

I scanned the bills I’d pocketed from Lila's shop. Her apartment's rent was overdue by eight weeks; the hospital bill was three months past due; the power utility had already sent a final notice.

I opened Lila's accounting ledger, and flipped to the Brisa loan entries. Each entry was meticulous—dates, amounts, interest rates, and cryptic references like “security held” or “co-signer responsibilities.” One line drew my eye more than the rest: a five-thousand-dollar loan with a margin note in spidery handwriting: “Collateral must be surrendered upon demand.” The implication was clear. Lila had been borrowing to stay afloat, but the Brisas had loaned her more than petals- they’d given her a deadline.

A knock at the door jolted me. I closed the ledger and set it aside. Marsha, my erstwhile wife, glided in like she owned the joint, red hair cascading in waves, red lips matching her temper. She wore a dress too pretty for my kind of place and eyes that still knew every scar I tried to hide. The mercury lamp cast her silhouette in hard relief: high cheekbones, the curves of her hips.

“Cole,” she purred. “Surprised to see me? Funny how I always manage to catch you off guard; do your clients know how easy to follow you are?” She leaned across the desk, fingers grazing the ledger’s edge. “Mind if I see what’s got you so interested?”

I slid it out of reach. “Not tonight.” My voice was flat, practiced. She arched an eyebrow.

She laughed softly. “You always were stubborn. Even more than you are clever. If you had a bit more common sense, you wouldn't have crashed out of the department like you did. Probably would be police chief by now, what with me still at your side."

Her words stung. Reminding me of when I’d traded power for kindness and lost nearly everything. I stood and stepped around the desk.

Her perfume—jasmine and orchids—filled the air. I wanted to hate it, but every memory of her felt like teeth sinking into my ribs. “I’m working,” I said. “You’re trespassing.”

She perched on the edge of my desk, ankles crossed. “Always so righteous.” Her eyes glittered. “How many damsels have you rescued lately?”

I dragged a hand through my hair. “What do you want, Marsha?”

She leaned forward, voice low. “I came to see you. See if the man I married still lived in a dusty office. And to get your signature.”

A pile of papers appeared out of her bag. They made a heavy slap as they hit my desk.

“Here, and here,” she said. Divorce papers, neat as a coffin lid. The pages settled in the oppressively still air. “I want this finalized by tomorrow. My lawyer will come by to collect.”

I leaned back in my chair, flicking ash from my cigarette into the tray. “I’m not signing until I know what we're doing.” My voice sounded flat even to me.

“You’re freeing yourself from my presence.” She crossed her arms, spine straight as a blade. “And I'm getting away from your empty promises. Finally.”

I nodded toward the papers. “I won’t support you anymore—financially or otherwise.”

“Is that so? I didn’t know you were still sending checks.” She tapped the top page with a manicured nail. “I don’t need your money, Cole. I’m doing just fine.”

“Where is it coming from?” I pressed, though dread coiled in my gut.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “That’s my business. You should try finding some of your own—lessons for both of us.”

I studied her face. No shame, no hesitation. Just the same cold confidence I remembered too well. A nagging thought whispered that she’d found another man. I let it hang. Didn’t want to know. Better than the truth, anyway.

“Don’t bother explaining,” I said. “I’ve lost enough chasing ghosts. I won’t be the weathervane that turns with your latest promise.”

She smirked and eased toward the door. “Suit yourself,” she said.

I watched her heels click across the floor, each step punctuating everything I’d given away. Her rear end swinging, a motion that once called to me with seductive promise. Now it was everything I thought I'd had walking out of my life, forever. Home, love, respect, power—they’d slipped through my fingers like water. Was it worth it? If I’d been a little colder, a little less kind, maybe I’d have kept at least one of those things. But then I’d have been someone I didn’t want to be.

The door clicked shut. I stared at the divorce papers, saw my own reflection in the glass of Marsha’s last favors. I’d sign them tomorrow. I’d stop funding her life. And I’d carry the weight of another loss—one I chose, one I couldn’t barter away, no matter how hard I tried. In my mind I contrasted the innocent smile in my photograph of Lila against Marsha’s venomous visage attached to the sinful curves I'd once known so well.

I poured another cup of coffee and returned to the ledger. I traced each Brisa entry again. The interest rate was exorbitant—thirty percent annualized—but they calculated it daily. Lila was bleeding money at a rate even her flowers couldn’t outgrow. One name in the ledger caught my eye: “Don Emilio.” Don Emilio Brisa must be the boss running the operation. If I wanted to find Lila, I’d have to face him—face the family with pockets deeper than the ocean.

I gathered my things. The sun was past its apex, and San Marisol’s boardwalk would be crawling with tourists soon. I headed to the city courthouse next, planning to pull property records and see if any of the Brisa shell companies owned real estate on the boardwalk. If they held title to the flower shop itself, Lila had nowhere left to turn.

At the record office, I signed in and slipped inside the stacks of ledgers and filing cabinets older than me. Dust motes swirled in the narrow aisles, interrupted only by the steady scratch of my pen and the distant click of typewriters. I found the Brisa Holdings index and pulled property tax records for Pueblo Escondido, Costa Nueva, and San Marisol itself. Sure enough, Brisa & Sons had a lien on a strip of properties along the north boardwalk—shops with steepled awnings where tide and sand silted the corners.

One property stood out: 412 Boardwalk Plaza, owned by Lila Harper but mortgaged to Brisa Holdings. The dates matched the first Brisa loan in April. If she defaulted, they’d seize the address.

By the time I left the office, the afternoon sun was dipping toward the Pacific. I stopped at a diner near the pier and ordered hash browns and eggs. I ate in silence, turning the ledger and my notes over in my hands, and my head. I needed more than numbers—I needed human sources. Nurses, neighbors, anyone who might have heard whispers of Brisa threats or seen Lila after the final payment date.

I left the diner, paid the tab, and lit a cigarette on the curb. The ocean’s horizon glowed pink, and carnival lights blinked in the distance. I’d learned more about the Brisa family than I ever wanted to know. My next stop was the boardwalk’s northern stretch, where I could canvas the other mortgaged shops and maybe spot a Brisa agent keeping watch. I flicked ash onto the pavement and exhaled, feeling the weight of every soul they’d crushed in their ledgers.

As I picked up the trolley route where I'd left off, the ledger burned a hole in my coat breast. Finding Lila meant going head-to-head with the Brisas. And a man like Don Emilio had resources I hadn’t faced since my days in the department. The sun slipped below the waves, and I braced myself. The tide was coming in, and there was no turning back.