//CLARA//
The note arrived before dawn, slipped under my door with the kind of silence that spoke of professional discretion. I found it when I woke, a cream-colored envelope bearing no name, no seal, nothing to trace it back to its sender. Inside was a single sheet of heavy stock paper and a bank draft that made my breath catch.
The funds have been transferred to an account in your name at the Mercantile Trust Company. No further documentation will be required. Use it as you see fit.
No signature. No flourish. Just Casimir's efficient, maddening scrawl on the parchment paper.
I stared at the number for a long time. One hundred thousand dollars. Finally in my hands. In my name. No questions asked and no oversight provided. It was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I had held since waking up in this century.
