Chapter 6 - The Restoration of Harbor House
Three weeks later, the gray skies of Seattle broke open to reveal a crisp, golden autumn morning that painted the brick facade of Harbor House in warm, amber light.
Mara stood on the sidewalk across the street, holding a cardboard tray of coffee, watching a crew of restoration workers install a brand-new wrought-iron gate at the main entrance.
The building was no longer under threat of demolition. In fact, following the federal asset seizure of Vanguard-Ashford Capital, the municipal government had officially designated Harbor House as a protected historical site, placing it under the permanent, unassailable administration of the Bennett Preservation Trust.
The Ashford family empire had imploded within forty-eight hours of the court hearing. Evelyn Ashford was facing federal charges for wire fraud and conspiracy, and Cole had been ousted from his own board of directors by angry investors fleeing a sinking ship. His luxury wellness resorts were currently being liquidated by federal receivers to pay back municipal bondholders.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Mara turned to see Naomi Frost walking up beside her, holding a large manila envelope stamped with the seal of the U.S. District Court.
“Just thinking about how much dust is in that sub-basement,” Mara smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. “Did the federal marshals finish cataloging the ledgers?”
“Every single box,” Naomi nodded, handing her the envelope. “The prosecutor says it’s the most airtight white-collar case they’ve seen in a decade. The Ashfords won’t be seeing daylight until they’re well into their seventies—if ever.”
Mara opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper: the official deed to Harbor House, cleared of all liens, encumbrances, and fraudulent corporate claims, bearing her name as sole trustee.
“My father would have loved this,” Mara murmured, tracing her thumb over the embossed signature of the county clerk.
“Your father built something that outlasted them,” Naomi said gently. “And you defended it.”
A sudden, cheerful shout broke their conversation.
Mara looked up to see Mrs. Higgins, an eighty-two-year-old retired librarian who had lived on the third floor of Harbor House for thirty years, shuffling down the front steps with a batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls on a paper plate.
“Mara, dear!” Mrs. Higgins called out, waving frantically. “Come over here! The radiator in apartment 3B is finally fixed, and I baked these to thank you properly!”
Mara laughed, feeling a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with steam or heating vents.
“Coming, Mrs. Higgins!” she called back.
May you like
She turned to Naomi, handing her the coffee tray. “Duty calls.”
“Go on,” Naomi smiled. “I’ll hold the briefcase.”
