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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.”
Forcenturies?
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 forcenturies. What I meant to say was that we wouldlike 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.Andthe 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 evencareabout 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 Richardsondropped 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 fileanddeal 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.Thatwas 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 livingroom, 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 explainwhat 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.”
