Shadows of the Estate

The municipal records office downtown smelled of damp paper and decades of bureaucratic neglect. Dominic had managed to secure us private access after hours through a contact in city planning, avoiding the prying eyes of local journalists and rival syndicates alike. I stood over a massive wooden table spread with crumbling leather-bound tax rolls and property transfers from the early nineties. My fingers brushed across the brittle pages, searching for any mention of a resident or employee named Marcus who had vanished around the time of my mother's disappearance. ""Look at this,"" Dominic murmured, shining a high-powered flashlight over a marginal note in a 1995 county surveyor's addendum.

I leaned in closer, reading the faded cursive entry regarding the boundary adjustment of our estate's eastern wall. ""The old greenhouse and adjacent garden shed were deeded separately to a groundskeeper named Marcus Vance,"" I read aloud, my mind racing to connect the pieces. ""Vance? That surname isn't on any of our family payroll archives from that era,"" Dominic noted, tapping his chin thoughtfully. ""Which means he was either paid off the books or employed directly by your mother without your father's knowledge.""

We needed more than a name; we needed a paper trail that proved where Marcus went after the estate was sealed off following my mother's death. According to standard real estate protocol, property transfers require notarized signatures and forwarding addresses, even for auxiliary staff on private land. ""Check the county probate and estate transfer files from the month after the accident,"" I instructed, my patience wearing thin as the clock ticked past midnight. Dominic pulled a heavy ledger from the lower shelf, flipping rapidly through the yellowed pages until his hand stopped on a notarized affidavit.

""Here,"" Dominic said, pointing to a signature at the bottom of a property relinquishment form. ""Marcus Vance transferred his retainer back to the estate trust thirty days after your mother's funeral, listing a residential address in the industrial district across town."" I pulled out my phone, taking a sharp, high-resolution photo of the document before looking up at Dominic with grim determination. ""The industrial district doesn't exist anymore; it was redeveloped into commercial warehouses ten years ago,"" Dominic warned, anticipating my next move. ""Then we find whoever bought the municipal archive records of the displaced residents,"" I replied, pocketing my phone. ""If Marcus Vance left a forwarding address or relatives in this city, we are going to find them.""