Morning began in the same weary way it always did. Andrew Spencer woke up a minute before his alarm, a habit that had been set like a stubborn clock for years. He lay there a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint gurgle of water from the bathroom his wife, Emily, was already up. The bedroom was chilly, curtains halfdrawn, letting in a dull grey light.
He reached for his phone, checked mail, messenger, calendar. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nineam meeting, elevenam bank appointment, then lunch with a potential partner. Everything was neatly scheduled.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toasted bread. Emily, in a fluffy robe and hair in a careless bun, was pulling slices from the toaster. On the table lay a newspaper, next to it Andrews favourite mug.
Are you going to be late today? she asked without turning.
I dont know, Andrew poured himself a coffee. It depends on the bank. If we sign the deal, Ill be home by eight.
She nodded, sat opposite him, scrolling through a news feed on her phone. Their conversation didnt really flow, but that had become normal. They lived side byside, barely disturbing each other, like two parallel lines. On the surface everything looked prosperous: a flat in the city centre, a cottage in the countryside, a sensible car, holidays pencilled into the calendar.
He ate his breakfast almost without tasting it, his mind already in the office. He needed to run through the numbers again so the bank would have no excuse to haggle. Andrew liked his life by the book, free of surprises.
Only one episode didnt fit the tidy picture of his biography the one he deliberately avoided thinking about. Over twenty years ago, when he was still slogging away in a tiny firm on the outskirts, wages were late and the office rent had to be paid in cash, stuffed into envelopes. He and his partner had concoced a little scheme involving fake contracts. By todays standards the sum was laughable, but back then it felt like salvation. One accountant suffered more than anyone else. Andrew preferred to call it a coincidence, not his fault.
He pushed the memory aside, took another sip of coffee, and glanced at the clock.
Im off, he said, standing.
Emily gave a quick nod, still glued to her phone.
Outside, the courtyard was already buzzing with cars, horns, the occasional hurried voice. Their driver waited at the entrance, punctual as ever. Andrew slipped into the back seat, automatically checking that his briefcase was still there.
The office was housed in a glass tower in the business district, where he had started in a cramped cubicle and now occupied nearly half a floor. In the reception, a secretary rose to meet him.
Good morning, Mr Spencer. A courier left something for you; Ive placed it on your desk.
From whom?
She didnt say. Just handed it over and left.
He nodded, headed to his office. The room was spacious, floortoceiling windows, a massive desk, walls lined neatly with diplomas and certificates all the trappings of stability and success.
On top of a tidy stack of papers sat an envelope. Thick, white, no return address, labelled only with his name in a crisp, slightly oldfashioned hand.
He lifted the envelope, turned it over. The paper felt textured, expensive. No logo. For a moment, something out of place fluttered through his otherwise polished day.
Probably another advert, he muttered, though it didnt feel like any advert hed seen before.
The secretary peeked in.
Coffee?
Yes, thanks, he replied, and after she left, he carefully tore the flap open.
Inside was a single sheet, black type printed from a printer, unsigned.
You may recall back in 98, in a small thirdfloor office, you signed three contracts for fictitious services. You assured no one would be hurt. Yet one man lost his job and later his flat. Hes still alive.
You like to think everything is under control. But the past doesnt vanish; it simply waits for you to let your guard down.
If youd prefer your current partners and family stay unaware, be ready for a conversation.
Ill be in touch soon.
Andrew felt his mouth go dry. He read the note again, the words landing with a weight that was oddly precise not vague hints but exact details.
He sank back into his chair, the paper trembling in his grip. His heart hammered faster than usual. The memory of that shabby office, peeling paint, the old desk where he and his partner stayed up late devising escapes, rushed back.
He had genuinely believed no one would suffer. The accountant a quiet middleaged man simply never showed up one day. Rumours swirled that hed been fired, that he was in debt. Andrew never dug deeper. Hed already learned not to look behind.
He placed the sheet beside the envelope, closed his eyes. Who could have written this after all these years?
A knock sounded at the door.
Mr Spencer, ready for the nineam briefing? asked the finance director, a tall man with a neat haircut. The teams gathered.
Andrew instinctively covered the paper with a folder.
On my way, he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
During the briefing he delivered the usual figures, made the usual notes, nodded at reports. Yet his mind kept drifting back to the envelope. Someone was digging up his past. Someone knew too much.
After the meeting he returned to his office, grabbed the sheet again. The back was blank no signature, no contact, just a promise of soon.
He opened his contacts list. No recent messages from the old partner they hadnt spoken in a decade. Perhaps the partner was angry that Andrew had moved on to his own business, while he stayed in the background. But how would the partner know about the accountants fate? Perhaps a current employee had stumbled on old files? How could they know about the thirdfloor office in 98?
He paced the room, considering options. Call the old partner? Ask directly? Did you send me that note? sounded absurd. And if it wasnt him?
His phone vibrated. A message from Emily: Are you definitely staying late today? Should I start dinner?
He stared at the screen, unsure how to answer. Everything felt fragile the house, the office, the familiar routes. One careless nudge and it could all crumble.
Ill try to be earlier, he typed, then put the phone away.
The day passed under a cloud of invisible threat. Bank meeting, lunch with a partner, project discussions all on autopilot, as if reading from a rehearsed script. Inside, he waited for someone to finally call.
No call came. By evening, the secretary popped in.
Mr Spencer, you have a missed call from an unknown number. They said theyd call back later.
Did they identify themselves?
Just a male voice calm. Mentioned it was a personal matter.
He nodded, feeling a familiar knot tighten in his chest.
Driving home, he stared out the window, barely noticing the city lights. Horns, billboards, commuters all blurred together. The driver chatted about traffic, but Andrew only nodded.
At home, silence greeted him. Emily had left a note on the kitchen table: Off to my sisters, dont wait up. Next to it a plate covered with cling film. He didnt heat it, poured himself a dram of whisky, slumped in the living room, and turned the TV on without choosing a channel. The picture flickered, but he didnt watch.
The phone sat on the coffee table. Each time it lit up with a new notification, he flinched. Only work emails and adverts appeared.
Sleep eluded him. In the dark, faces floated up: the forgotten accountant, the old partner who had pushed the scheme, a girl from a neighbouring department named Poppy who once looked at him with hope before the office closed. Their lives seemed distant, like someone elses story. Then a thread tugged.
The next day the letter felt less like a nightmare and more like a reminder. He retrieved it, read it again. No new insights.
At lunch, an unknown number rang.
Yes? Andrew said, tension tightening his voice.
Mr Spencer, hello, the voice was calm, neutral, no accent. I presume you received my letter.
Who are you?
Thats irrelevant. What matters is that I know what youd rather keep buried and who might hear about it. I can share that with those close to you or those who depend on your business.
Andrew gripped the receiver until his fingers went white.
If you think you can blackmail me, he began, but his voice wavered.
Im not thinking. I know. I know about the phantom contracts, about the man who lost his job and his flat. I know how you climbed the ladder while he scraped by odd jobs. Your résumé reads like a case study in opportunism.
What do you want?
A conversation. Tonight, seven oclock, the café on the corner of your street. You know the place. Come alone. And dont tell anyone not your partner, not Emily. You understand how quickly gossip spreads.
The line clicked dead. Andrew held the phone, listening to the silence.
The corner café was a modest sort, with a shop window where, in the evenings, mums with toddlers and retirees with newspapers lingered. He knew it well; he and Emily often popped in on weekends.
He checked his watch: half past two. Several hours remained, each one thick with anticipation.
Work ceased to exist. He sat at his desk, watching rain beads crawl down the glass. Options swirled: ignore? Run? The letter was now a lever in someone elses hand. Call the police? Hed have to spill the beans, and who knows where that would lead. The police rarely bother with a decadesold accounting scandal unless theres a current victim.
He told the finance director he had a personal errand. The director, a man of few questions, nodded. In their world, personal matters were respected as long as they didnt interfere with the bottom line.
On the drive home he found himself scrutinising strangers faces, halfexpecting them to know his secret. The driver asked if he wanted a detour; Andrew just shook his head.
At home he lingered by the kitchen window, the café visible across the road, people inside laughing, scrolling on phones. Emily popped in, eyes bright with curiosity.
Youre early, she said. Anything wrong?
He felt irritation rise. He wanted to say everything was fine, that he was just tired, but the words got stuck.
Just a work thing downstairs a meeting at the café, he replied.
The café? she raised an eyebrow. You have a meeting room there?
Its more convenient for them, he muttered.
She studied him a beat, then shrugged. Alright. Im off to my sisters birthday later. You?
Will see, he said, watching her bag disappear down the hallway.
Time dragged. Finally the clock edged toward seven. Andrew slipped on his coat, descended the stairs, and stepped out into the damp, overcast evening.
At the café entrance he paused, inhaled the cool air, and went in.
Inside, soft music played. A few tables were occupied. He scanned the room, trying to spot the person who knew his past.
By the window, at a small table, sat a man in his fifties, slightly balding, wearing a plain shirt. His face was familiar yet distant the accountant from the old firm, now older, wearier.
The man looked up, nodded to an empty chair.
Take a seat, Mr Spencer, he said, voice steady, not hostile but edged with a quiet resolve.
Andrew sat, the chair creaking under him.
You got my letter the call, he began.
Didnt expect you to turn up, Andrew replied, his coffee cooling untouched.
The accountants eyes flickered with a mix of fatigue and something like vindication.
Yes, I thought youd ignore it, he said. You were busy building your empire while I was left to pick up the pieces.
A waitress arrived, placed tea for the accountant and offered coffee to Andrew, who accepted absentmindedly.
What do you want? Andrew asked once the waitress was gone.
The simple thing, the accountant smiled thinly. Money is the easy answer. But I want more. I want you to admit what you did not to me, but to your partner and your wife. I want you to own up, and then well talk compensation.
Andrews fists clenched beneath the table.
I didnt know it was that serious, he protested.
It was always serious for the person on the other side, the accountant replied. You were fortunate enough to walk away clean. I was not.
Whats the sum? Andrew asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The accountant named a figure a sixfigure sum in pounds, enough to make a dent but not ruin Andrews life.
This is for silence? Andrew asked.
No. For the years I lost, for the damage. Im not looking for headlines. I just want you to set the record straight with the people who matter to you.
How will you prove you have the evidence? Andrew pressed.
Very simple. In a week Ill call your partner. If he says he knows everything, my job is done. If not Ill take whatever steps I feel necessary.
Andrew felt a cold knot form in his stomach. A week to dismantle the life hed built, or watch someone else do it.
Youre not threatening me? he asked, trying to sound steady.
Youre threatening yourself by staying silent, the accountant said. Why now? After all these years?
Because I cant keep living with this ghost, the accountant answered. And because you still have something to lose.
Silence fell, broken only by the soft chatter of other diners.
Ill think about it, Andrew finally said. I need time.
You have a week, the accountant replied, standing. Ill leave the money for the tea on the table.
He placed a modest stack of notes beside the teacup and walked out, not looking back.
Andrew sat there, coffee now lukewarm, hands trembling. The decision loomed: confess and risk everything, or pay up and hope the secret dies with the cash.
Night fell. The house was dark. Emily had left a note that shed be at her sisters late, and that shed be back soon. Andrew slipped into his study, closed the door, and pulled the envelope from the drawer, placing it next to his phone.
He opened his laptop, typed the accountants name into a search engine, and found a handful of old debt notices, a few newspaper clippings about an accountant who vanished after a scandal in the late nineties. The same man, now older, still trying to piece his life together.
A call came. It was his business partner, Mark, brighteyed and always proud of their spotless reputation.
Good news from the bank, Mark said. Theyre ready to sign tomorrow, but I need you there in person. Youve seemed off today everything alright?
Andrew glanced at the envelope, then at the phone.
Just a bit tired, he replied. Lets talk later.
Mark chirped, Alright, rest up. Tomorrows a big day.
The line clicked.
He stared at the envelope again. The past, once a quiet whisper, now sat on his desk like a ticking bomb.
He picked up the phone, dialed Emilys number.
Hey, her voice sounded cheerful, background noise of a family gathering.
Where are you? he asked.
At my sisters, we just sat down. Something wrong?
He hesitated, then said, When you get back, we need to talk. Its important.
She laughed, Youre scaring me, love.
Ive got something to tell you about an old job. Very old, he said, searching for the right words.
Ill try not to be late, she replied, then the line went quiet.
Andrew set the phone down, the room quiet except for the steady ticking of the wall clock.
He ran his fingers over the rough edge of the envelope, feeling the papers texture a thin barrier between the life hed built and the one that might now crumble.
He didnt know how it would end. His partner could explode, his wife could shut down, the accountant could still make a move even if he paid. There were no guarantees.
One thing was certain: the past would no longer stay hidden. It was already on his desk, wandering the hallway, peering through the café window opposite.
He slid the envelope back into the drawer, left it unlocked, sank into his chair, and closed his eyes.
A lock clicked in the hallway. Footsteps approached, keys clattered on a shelf. The sound of someone entering grew louder.
Andrew opened his eyes, turned toward the door, and listened, aware that the conversation about to begin would leave the comfortable quiet of his old life far behind.
