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Kaden leaned toward her. “This place gives me the creeps. I mean, there’s something a little too unsettling about the way she just let us in with little regard to the fact that we’re complete strangers. Not to mention the cats!” His gaze shifted wildly around the room like he expected them to converge and attack at any moment.
“She’s lonely.” Cammie rolled her eyes. “Clearly she doesn’t get visitors. Like, ever.”
“Plus, we’re teenagers. I don’t think we’re exactly the biggest threats,” Abby added. “The sooner we get my grandmother’s file, the sooner we can get out of here, so suck it up and help me look!”
Kaden paused in his flailing. “Good point.”
He crouched next to a box and started pulling files. “What’s your grandma’s first name again?”
“Gloria.”
“Gutman?” he asked. “Gloria Gutman?”
When Abby nodded her confirmation, he pursed his lips. “GG makes total sense now.”
Abby chuckled, turning to her own box. They rummaged through the files for a couple minutes. From somewhere down the hall, they heard the banging of dishes, then Leanne’s sing-song voice. “I have some shortbread cookies too. I’ll get a tray.”
Kaden’s frantic gaze found hers. “No way am I’ eating a cookie from this place. She probably bakes the hair into them. Probably thinks it’s therapeutic.”
Abby stopped scouring the papers and stared at him. Cammie scoffed from her perch at her desk while she filed her nails, watching them work. “Judgy much? You of all people—”
“I know. Sorry.” Kaden looked down at the files in his hand, frowning. “I’m not exactly Mr. Social, but ever since I was a kid, cats have freaked me out. I mean, all the claws and sharp needle-like teeth. Not to mention, the glowing yellow-green eyes.”
“You have a fear of cats?” Abby snickered.
“Not a fear, per se.” He straightened, his tone indignant.
“Okay,” Abby said, unable to suppress the laughter in her voice.
She scanned a pile of loose documents in the back of the box, and her smile faded as she read. Noticing her change in demeanor, Kaden moved next to her and peered over her shoulder.
“What? What is it?” he asked.
“This paperwork. It has my grandfather’s name on it.” Abby checked the file behind the papers and snatched it up. “It’s my grandmother’s file. And these papers are...deeds.” Abby bit the inside of her cheek.
“Are you sure? Lemme see.” He wiggled his fingers, accepting the papers. His eyes scanned over the documents. “They’re to apartments. In Austria?” He glanced over at Abby, his mouth twisting in confusion. “And these are...” He flipped through the remaining papers. “Bank statements and closing documents?”
“But look at the name on the account.” Abby pointed to the paperwork. “Irma Mentz.”
“So, someone else bought the properties and put them in his name? Why would they do that?”
Abby slid her hands through her hair, then massaged the tension forming in the front of her skull. “I don’t know. Either that or these are his accounts, but he’s using a different name. Why? And there’s a business card here. Kenneth Levine,” she read. “Director of Special Investigations, the Department of Justice.”
She froze the second she read the name and place out loud. “Wasn’t that?”
Kaden nodded, his expression sober. “The night Lawson was murdered, my dad said he made a phone call to the Department of Justice.”
“Um. Murdered?” Cammie’s jaw dropped. “Am I supposed to know what we’re talking about? And you never mentioned anything about a murder.”
Ignoring her, Abby focused on the file. “So, if the business card for the DOJ was inside GG’s file, then it looks like whatever Lawson was doing the night he died in Newberry was definitely linked to the phone call he made to them and my grandmother. Maybe he thought this Kenneth Levine guy helped coordinate the purchase of this land? It seems strange.”
“Or Lawson was trying to get information from him,” Kaden suggested with a shrug.
“Yeah, maybe.” Abigail tapped the note on her thigh, something unsettling stirred in her gut. “I think I remember my mom saying my grandfather lived in Austria following the liberation in Germany. A lot of Jews did before seeking permanent refuge there or elsewhere.”
“Okay, so it kinda makes sense. He used to live there. So, he bought an investment property? Maybe it was sentimental? Or maybe he had planned to stay but decided to immigrate at the last minute? What else is there?” he asked, pointing to the mass of paperwork in front of her.
“Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here on my lard-butt confused,” Cammie interjected.
