Part 7

The three polite measured raps on the door felt heavy with a routine of authority. Salem looked up from the papers spread across the kitchen table, fingers absently worrying the seam of her sleeve. The false swell under her dress made her movements softer, deliberate. She smoothed her palms over it before she opened the door.

Inspector Harlan Reese filled the door frame: late forties, rugged face, coat collar turned up against the chill, and the air of indifference.

“Ms. Brody?” His voice had the measured cadence of a planned conversation with a result in mind. “Inspector Reese, Coldwater PD. Mind if I come in a moment? I’m following up about a farm purchase on Elm Ridge.”

“Of course,” she said.

Salem stepped back and let him inside, closing the door with the practiced ease of someone greeting a neighbour. She kept her smile measured, warm, and steady. It was the smile that made strangers trust her.

“Please, have a seat.”

He sat at the kitchen table, a folder open. Salem perched on the edge of a chair across from him, hand resting on her belly, eyes wide and easy. “I’ve had a couple of calls,” Reese began, pen poised. “From your broker, Mr. Leland. They’re seeing some irregularities with the funds you are to transfer. He says you signed a purchase agreement and the payment’s been delayed.”

Salem’s chest rose in a calm breath. “Yes, the bank placed a hold. Overseas transfer complications,” she said, the explanations soft and measured. “It’s a bureaucratic nightmare moving money internationally. It’ll clear by Friday.”

“Ms. Brody, I don’t want to alarm you, but from their side it looks like a contract in place without cleared funds. Sellers don’t like being left in limbo. It costs them time, and time is money. There’s civil exposure, maybe a lawsuit if they want to pursue it. Depending on what’s been said to the bank, there’s potential for fraud claims against you if documentation doesn’t check out.”

Salem’s smile didn’t flicker. “I understand. I’ve been in touch with Mr. Leland. I’m handling it. The seller’s just anxious, that’s all. They’ll be fine.”

Reese let his pen rest on the page. He watched her a moment: the way she folded her hands, the carefully tuned cadence. “I’ve talked to Leland,” he said finally. “And I spoke with the seller. They asked me to check in and see whether anything may be of criminal nature here. Right now, it looks like a civil matter. Escrow and real estate disputes are usually handled through attorneys and civil courts.” He paused, and his face softened. “Between you and me, Ms. Brody…”

“It’s Mrs.,” Salem decided to play a game.

“…Mrs. …from what I’ve seen and what was in the listing, this is a large operation. The seller’s worried, understandably. But chasing this through civil court costs time and money. If they were to press, I told them I’d include a note in my report about your actual situation. For what it’s worth, they’d probably write this off unless something more serious comes up.”

Salem’s throat bobbed with a swallow, but she kept her tone light. “People worry – they always do,” she said. “They don’t know how it is. That’s okay. I have the funds moving. It’s just delayed.”

Reese’s pen scratched against the paper. “Do you have an attorney handling the transfer? Any documentation you can show me – a bank confirmation, escrow receipts?” He folded his hands. “If your name is on a contract and payment isn’t made, you’re in a tough spot.”

“Of course,” Salem said. “My father’s lawyers are handling it. Don’t worry.” Her hand tightened briefly on the belly, a private reassurance. “If anyone’s going to lose something, it won’t be us.”