Take It On The Run

Chapter 14

POV: Avery

After my second morning class, I found a forensic accountant via the internet and hired her to trace Mr. Dawson's past financial activity, flagging it for anything suspicious.

By the time my night class concluded, she had already found an anomaly in his bank statements—ties to a company that specialized in the dealing of rare art.

It seemed too obvious for a group calling themselves The Collectors to quite literally collect priceless works. I'd also spent enough time at Sloan's house to know that her father had no interest in paintings, sketches, or sculptures from long-dead artists. That or he stashed such things elsewhere.

As a writer and lit professor, I was deeply ensconced in the world of fine art, and people who dropped that kind of cash on their collections never stopped boasting about them.

It didn't take a genius to see that something wasn't adding up here.

"I've hit a wall for now," the forensic accountant explained over the phone. "My guess is that Somptueux Galleries is a shell corporation. As far as I can tell, they have no online presence, and the address given for their main location is an abandoned warehouse. They take enough business to fly just below the radar, but they're raking in hundreds of millions every year. All of which is being held in off-shore accounts."

"Can you find out more?" I probed before biting my lower lip.

"Probably not. Whoever covered their tracks and encrypted these records was an expert. I know some people who might be able to help, but..." she trailed off.

I knew that whatever the accountant was about to say would be sketchy. Still, I'd do just about anything to help my angel. "But what?" I pressed.

"They don't exactly do things through legal channels, if you get my meaning."

"I could give a flying fuck how they do things so long as they get it done."

I heard her typing on the other end. "Understood. Someone will be in touch with you this week."

"Thank you for your help, Ms. Smith." It was obviously a pseudonym, which made sense, given the dangerous nature of her job. I was grateful to her all the same.

I waited for the usual response, but it never came. "There's something else you should know."

I tensed in my armchair at her unsettling tone. Suddenly, I wished I had a glass of whiskey to wash down whatever revelation was on the horizon. "Tell me."

There was a long pause before she finally replied, "Mr. Dawson is alive."

It took a minute for her words to sink in. "That's...impossible," I argued, hands shaking. "He was declared legally dead by the Savannah Police Department three years ago."

The accountant's tone was patient as she explained, "That may be so, but his financial records prove otherwise."

My mind scrambled to make sense of what she was telling me. "Someone could've stolen his identity. There are any number of plausible explanations for what you found."

"Even the photograph taken of him at a Swiss bank three months ago?"

Christ. How the hell had this woman found all of that information in less than twenty-four hours?

"Can you send that photo to me, Ms. Smith?"

"Check your phone."

I went into my inbox and saw an unread message that had been sent over an hour ago from a throw-away account. I typed in the encrypted password to access the attachment, and nearly passed out at the image on my screen.

He had more wrinkles than the last time I'd seen him, along with a pair of unflattering glasses. His hair had also been dyed a common shade of brow, just like Sloan's, and he'd grown a kempt beard. But it was Mr. Dawson all right.

"Professor Akira?" someone called from the threshold of my office.

I looked up to find Britney Landry, one of my master's students, standing there in a trench coat and high heels. All I really knew about her was that her creative work and perspective were generic. I wasn't sure how she'd even gotten into the program.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes as she batted those big blue eyes at me, a finger twirling her long blond hair. The ample breasts she kept on display were an unwelcome sight.

"Thank you, Ms. Smith. You've been incredibly helpful. I look forward to speaking with your contacts soon."

I hung up as Britney stepped into my office and closed the door behind her. From her attire and the unsubtle hints she'd thrown my way over the last three weeks, I knew she was here to seduce me.

It wasn't uncommon for professors to date graduate students, but I'd never been interested in indulging in such acts. Aside from the fucked up power dynamic and grooming aspect, it invited unnecessary drama into one's life.

I didn't want to date an inexperienced child. I wanted an equal, a person I could share my life with—someone like Sloan.

"You need to leave," I barked. I didn't normally yell at my students, but I needed to set some hard boundaries before things spun out of control.

Undaunted, Britney untied the sash at her waist, the coat opening to reveal pink lace panties and a matching garter belt. Her nipples were covered by periwinkle glitter pasties. "Still want me to leave, professor?"

"Yes, I do. Now get the fuck out of my office." I wanted to point out that this was sexual harrassment, but it would likely end in her going to the dean and telling him I'd been the one to come onto her, to make her uncomfortable.

"Don't lie," she said, kneading her breasts. "I've seen the way you look at me."

As a private university, Tulane had a lot of privileged, entitled students who believed they could take whatever they wanted. Students who had no clue what it was like beyond the ivory tower or what happened when mommy and daddy's wallet couldn't intervene on their behalf.

I was about to give Britney her first real-world lesson.

She sauntered over to me, trying to sit on my lap. I stood, and she caught herself in time to avoid falling flat on her exposed ass.

I stood over her, leering. "If you think I look at you as anything other than a desperate girl trying to screw her teacher for an A because she's simply incapable of earning it, then I suggest you think again."

I grabbed my messenger bag and left, slamming the door on my way out.