Chapter 12: The Ledger
Priya Raman had beaten him to the study by at least an hour. When Julian pushed through the door at eight, she was already at his desk, three ledgers open in a row and a laptop humming beside them, her hair pinned back and cold coffee at her elbow.
"Morning," she said, without looking up. "You look like you slept in a ditch."
"Close," Julian said evenly. "What have you got?"
"Depends how angry you want to be before breakfast." She slid the first ledger toward him. "Nolan has been skimming for at least two years. I had the estate accounts pulled overnight and compared against the vendor contracts, and it is not subtle once you know where to look."
Julian sat. "Walk me through it."
"First, the kickbacks." Priya flipped to a flagged page. "Harrowmere pays Whitfield Landscaping a retainer fourteen percent above market for this county. Whitfield is owned by Nolan's brother-in-law. The contract was signed by Nolan under your power of attorney, and the renewal letters are dated ahead of the review window."
"How much?"
"About forty-one thousand over two years. That is the small one." She opened the second ledger. "Phantom repairs. Three invoices from Calloway Roofing for work on the east chimney. Nine, twelve, and eleven thousand. Calloway Roofing holds no state license, lists no address, and has no record of ever setting foot on this property. The chimney has not been touched since the 2019 repointing."
Something cold settled behind Julian's ribs. "And the tabloid?"
Priya turned the laptop toward him. A wire transfer confirmation glowed on the screen. "Five thousand dollars from a holding account registered to a stringer who sells to the Globe-Times. It landed in Nolan's personal checking three weeks before the assault story ran. The memo line says consulting. That word is doing a great deal of work."
"Who approved the monthly accounts?"
"You did," Priya said. "Or rather, your signature did. Nolan routed the summaries through my office and marked them urgent, and I handed you the Friday stack. He buried the skim in the Friday pile."
Julian studied her for a moment. "That is not your fault."
"I know," she said. "I am telling you anyway, because you would blame me if I did not say it first."
"Fair." He rose and crossed to the terrace door. "Bring him in."
Nolan arrived five minutes later, escorted by one of the house security men. He had changed into a pressed shirt and a blazer, and he wore the easy, injured confidence of a man ready to negotiate.
"Julian," he said. "Before we start, I want to say that the assembly this morning was beneath you. Three days in a costume, spying on your own people. I have worked for you for six years."
"Sit down, Nolan."
Nolan did not sit. "If this is about the Vance conversation at the boathouse, I can explain. I was exploring options for the estate. Exploring. That is my job."
"It is not your job," Julian said. He laid the three ledgers on the desk in a row, each open to its flagged page, and set the laptop beside them with the transfer on the screen. "Whitfield Landscaping. Fourteen percent over market. Your brother-in-law."
Nolan's mouth opened. "The landscaping market is volatile. There are seasonal factors."
"Calloway Roofing," Julian said flatly. "Three invoices. Thirty-two thousand dollars. No license, no address, no work performed."
"I do not personally verify every invoice. That is a staff failure, not a crime."
"The stringer," Julian said, and tapped the laptop. "Five thousand dollars, three weeks before the Globe-Times ran the story about Pete Kowalski. Consulting."
Nolan stared at the screen. A flush climbed his neck. "You had no right to look at my personal accounts."
"I had every right," Julian said. "It is in your employment contract, the one you signed the year you started. Section eleven. You should reread it."
"That money was unrelated. I did freelance consulting for a media firm last year. Legitimate work."
"For a tabloid stringer, three weeks before a fabricated assault story about this house." Julian's voice stayed level. "And in the same week, according to the boathouse conversation I recorded, you agreed to a cut of the sale if Sterling Vance's leverage campaign forced me to sell."
"You recorded me." Nolan's voice rose. "That is illegal. That is... I will sue. I will go to the Globe-Times and tell them everything. Wrongful termination. A billionaire's vendetta against his own manager. You will be headlines for a month."
"Nolan." Julian held his gaze. "You are fired. Effective immediately. Your employment contract is terminated for cause, sections four and eleven, fraud and breach of fiduciary duty. Your access to the house, the accounts, and the grounds ends now."
"You cannot just... six years, Julian. I gave you six years."
"And you spent them stealing." Julian nodded to the security man at the door. "You will hear from my lawyer about restitution. The ledgers stay here."
Nolan's hands curled at his sides. "You will hear from my lawyer."
"Try me."
The security man stepped forward. "Mr. Pierce. This way, please."
Nolan looked from the ledgers to Julian's face, and whatever he saw there emptied the bluster out of him. He turned and walked out, the blazer suddenly too big for his shoulders.
"One hour," Julian called after him. "Be off the grounds in one hour, or I will have him escort you to the gate personally."
The door closed. The study fell quiet.
Priya exhaled through her nose. "Well. That went better than the average performance review."
Julian did not answer. He crossed to the tall windows and looked out at the lake, where the morning light lay flat and pale on the water. The fury that had carried him through the last hour was already draining, leaving something heavier in its wake. Six years of trust. Friday piles. A man who had eaten at his table.
"Priya," he said.