The boy's boots squelch in the mud as he struggles to pull Madame Whitaker's work bag from the trunk of her red 1992 Daihatsu Applause. Letting out a puff of hot air and giving a final tug, the boy manages to get the work bag over the lip of the trunk. Before he can even catch his breath, Madame Whitaker is already calling for him.

“QUINCY,” her booming voice rings out from the ornate porte cochère that was already packed with cars, “hurry up with my bag.”

Quincy sucks in one gulp of cool air before trudging through the mud that sinks up to his ankles with each step. He comes to a stop under the covered doorway, just a step behind Madame Whitaker. The covered portion of the driveway is the fanciest bit of architecture he has ever seen. The front door is made from two thick slabs of hard wood, stained a dark, imposing color. The gas lights on both sides of the entrance are the only things illuminating the entry on the gloomy, overcast afternoon. Quincy looks down and sees that even the pavement is made of large, expensive slabs of stone... that now have muddy, boy-sized footprints all over them. Quincy peers behind Madame Whitaker's boots and sees no evidence of muddy boot prints. As he looks further behind them, he also doesn't see any evidence of her trekking through the mud. He still can't figure out how she manages to never leave a trace. Quincy had asked her how she managed a similar feat on one of their first cases together, but she waved him off. He frowns, looking at her boots. She never teaches him anything, even though that's the whole reason he works for her! He feels like everything he's learned so far, he's taught himself.

The door swings open, revealing a red-faced man who is... less dressed than Quincy would like. Quincy glances away from the wrinkled, unbuttoned shirt that is half tucked into the man's trousers and poking out the unzipped fly. However, his eyes land on his bare feet that are peeling with a severe case of athlete's foot.

The man's eyes snap from Madame Whitaker to Quincy, “What are you looking at, you little—”

Quincy almost drops the work bag as the strange man spits his grouchiness at him. He grips the leather tighter as Madame Whitaker clears her throat and recaptures the man's attention.

“Mr. Lancing, you called for my services early this morning?” Madame Whitaker says in her professional tone, staring her client down.

Lancing seems to think better of his aggressiveness the longer Madame Whitaker stares him down. The three of them sit in silence as Lancing shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches over, eyeing the two of them. Finally, he lets out some gruff words.

“No offense, but I asked for Madame Whitaker, not Madame Whitaker and her stray dog,” He says, mouth pulling into a grimace as he side eyes Quincy's mud-caked feet. “This is a matter of great importance, and this scrawny thing can't be more than ten. Can you just get rid of him so we can get on with this?”

Quincy shuffles his feet together self-consciously and clutches the bag hard between his fingers. “I'm fourteen,” he grinds out, “and if it's a matter of capability then you—”

Quincy is cut off by a gloved finger and a stern look from Madame Whitaker's brown eyes.

“I'm afraid that's simply not possible.” Madame Whitaker smiles diplomatically, “The boy is my assistant.”

“Whatever,” Lancing scoffs. He drags his fingers through his greasy strands of blond hair and disappears from the doorway, making no indication that they were to follow him inside.

Madame Whitaker boldly strides forward into the manor, eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail. Quincy slinks along behind her, watching Lancing serpentine clumsily down the hallway. As they venture further inside, the loud cacophony of arguing men begins to rise in volume. Lancing leads them by a sitting room filled with arguing men in powerful-looking suits. For a moment, Quincy thinks they are going to slip right by them until an older gentleman with thick white hair and an aquiline nose jumps up at the sight of them.

“Timothy, stop right there or so help me!” He bellows as he shoves past all the other men. He clomps closer to them in the shiniest dress shoes Quincy has seen in his life. The older gentleman stops in front of them and looks suspiciously at Madame Whitaker and Quincy before rounding on Lancing. “Who in the world do you think you are bringing into this house at a time like this?” He seethes.

“Oh, please, are you expecting your army of lawyers to solve this mess for you?” Lancing growls, “They've been doing nothing but stroking each other's egos in the parlor for two weeks!”

The gentleman looks unimpressed, “Timothy,” he says sternly.

Lancing lets out a frustrated groan and rolls his eyes before making a lazy gesture, “This is Madame Whitaker,” he finishes with a sharp smile.

The parlor of lawyers erupts into startled gasps and whispered questions. A middle-aged thin lawyer in glasses trips his way over to the door, hands out, ready to plead with Lancing's father. “Sir, I cannot advise you to speak to this woman. She—”

The gentleman huffs as he closes the parlor doors on the lawyer, trying to fight his way through, shoving them shut with a decisive click. He closes his eyes as he rests his hand on the seam of the closed door before turning to the three of them, quirking an eyebrow at the muddy boy before choosing to ignore him. He puts his hand out for Madame Whitaker to shake. “Madame Whitaker, I have heard a lot about your work.”

Madame Whitaker takes his hand firmly and shakes, “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Ah, yes,” The gentleman dips his head in apology, “I'm Daniel Burgess, the trustee for the late George Lancing's will.”

Lancing scoffs and leans against the newel post towards the end of the hallway. Quincy tilts his head as he glances between Lancing's unkempt appearance and the tight creases of Mr. Burgess' attire. The two couldn't seem more different. Unfortunately, they both seemed to dislike Quincy anyway.

Mr. Burgess smiles pleasantly, “Unfortunately, Madame Whitaker, your services will not be necessary.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, Mr. Lancing is the one who will decide that,” Madame Whitaker mimics his smile. “He is the one who called me after all.” Madame Whitaker gestures to Lancing to lead the way up the stairs. Mr. Burgess makes some disgruntled sounds at the quick dismissal. Quincy begins to climb the stairs, balancing the heavy work bag.

“Wait, Madame Whitaker,” a strong hand clamps down on Quincy's shoulder, nearly making him topple over under the heavy weight of the bag, “as the manager of Timothy's financial situation, I must inform you that he may not be able to pay you.”

Quincy can feel the sweat from Mr. Burgess' hand leaking through his thin shirt, the warmth of the large palm scalding his skin. He looks at Mr. Burgess, who is eye level with him from the bottom of the stairs. He doesn't acknowledge Quincy at all, acting like all he is doing is holding up Madame Whitaker's bag.

Madame Whitaker takes a few measured steps back down the stairs so that her hand is resting on Mr. Burgess's and her gaze looks down on him. “I'm sure we will be able to work something out,” she replies with measured warmth as she peels the man's hand off of Quincy.

Letting out a breath and keeping one eye on Mr. Burgess, Quincy continues to ascend the stairs, not listening as Lancing complains irritably. Quincy watches as his air of politeness fades away to one of concern. His eyes flick over to Quincy, and the concern quickly darkens to agitation. The boy whips his head around and stares at Madame Whitaker's back instead, and quickly trots up the rest of the stairs.

The three of them settle in an upstairs library. Madame Whitaker and Lancing are sitting across from one another. Each is settled in an antique love seat, and they are separated by an old oak coffee table with a few blotches of heat damage on Lancing's side. Madame Whitaker gestures for Quincy to set her bag down on the table and sit next to her.

The heavy leather bag hits the table with a thump, and Quincy flexes his fingers after the long trip holding the bag. Madame Whitaker pops open the clip of the bag and reaches inside. She pulls out a worn notebook, a set of pens, and a folder with a thick wad of paper in it. She flips open the folder to reveal a packet that is decorated with colorful sticky tabs and flips it around before sliding it over to Lancing.

Madame Whitaker begins her usual spiel for Lancing: “We should begin by going over my contract terms. It is important to know what you are going to get with my services. For starters—”

“I couldn't care less,” Lancing rips a pen off the table and jabs the point on the dotted line next to the first sticky tab, “just get this done.”

Madame Whitaker watches as Lancing furiously signs, dates, and initials every spot on the contract before throwing it down on the table. Lancing taps his fingers impatiently, his knees waiting for the woman to do something. He and Quincy watch as Madame Whitaker delicately picks up the discarded pen and flips open her notebook.

And Madame Whitaker begins, “So, you think someone has been stealing from you. Tell me why.”