Chapter 8 - The Shadow Lease
In August, I began following the money.
Since I couldn't access Mark’s personal bank account without triggering an alert, I focused on our joint tax filings and our shared real estate holdings. Mark handled our quarterly tax projections through a small accounting firm downtown run by a college friend of his, Paul Mercer.
On a Monday afternoon, I walked into Paul’s office unannounced.
"Clara!" Paul said, standing up from his desk in surprise, adjusting his glasses. "What a pleasant surprise! Is Mark with you?"
"No, Paul," I said smoothly, setting my designer leather tote bag on his guest chair. "Mark’s in meetings all day. I was downtown finishing a site audit for the new park project and realized we hadn't dropped off the signed schedule for the property tax assessment on our rental cottage."
Paul blinked. "Oh! Mark sent those over electronically last week, Clara. You didn't need to come down in person."
"Did he?" I smiled faintly, looking slightly embarrassed. "Gosh, he told me he forgot. He's been so overwhelmed with the new commercial development project on 12th Street."
Paul chuckled, walking over to a filing cabinet. "Tell me about it. Between the 12th Street development and that new holding entity he registered in June, I don't know how he sleeps."
My internal pulse spiked, but my face remained smooth as glass. "The holding entity? Mark mentioned it briefly, but you know how financial legalese goes over my head. Which entity was that again?"
Paul pulled a folder from the drawer, flipping through the pages. "The Crestview Property Holdings LLC. He set it up for the lease management on that loft downtown."
"Right, right," I nodded, keeping my tone light and conversational. "The loft on 8th Street."
"No, the one on Riverfront Place," Paul corrected, glancing at the document. "Unit 402. Beautiful building. I assumed you guys were using it as a corporate rental for your design clients?"
"Exactly," I lied without missing a beat. "A corporate rental for high-end clients. Mark’s so thorough about those things."
Five minutes later, I walked out of Paul’s office into the bright afternoon sunlight.
Riverfront Place. Unit 402.
I walked three blocks to the waterfront district, stopped outside a sleek, modern glass tower overlooking the river, and looked up at the fourth floor.
The windows were tinted, reflecting the blue summer sky and the passing white clouds.
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Mark hadn't just rented a room at the Lumière Hotel. He had leased a luxury apartment under a shell company six months ago. He had built a complete, fully functioning secondary home right under my nose, funded by his personal discretionary income, documented by his college friend's accounting firm.
And October 18 was two months away.
