Chapter 7: The Terrace

The fund Bryce meant was my father's money.

My father left me $2.1 million when he died, from selling his share of a trucking garage in 2020.

It had never touched Pinnacle.

I had moved it in March, out of a joint account Bryce could read.

It now sat in a small credit union he'd never heard of.

He had found the transfer record, and from where he stood it looked like theft.

It would take him a week to learn it was only an inheritance.

I told Walter so in the hallway after the meeting.

"I know," he said. "Your father told me where it was going the year he died. I only needed you to say it first."

"You knew?"

"I knew your father." His mustache lifted. "Go home, Odessa. Eat something. Lawyers fight better on dinner."

I did not go home.

At six o'clock I stood on a rooftop in the West Loop with a glass of wine in my hand.

Nathan Strand had called at noon and said, "I won't talk business. I'd just like to feed you."

I had said no twice.

The third time I said yes before I could stop myself.

The terrace sat on top of an old brewery he owned, ringed with string lights and potted lemon trees.

A table for two stood at the edge, set with plain white plates.

He came out of the stairwell carrying a skillet with his sleeves rolled up.

"Chicago says no to everything but deep dish," he said. "I make a mean omelet."

"It's six in the evening."

"Best meal of the day."

It was an omelet with brown butter and herbs, and it was the best thing I had eaten in months.

He watched me finish it.

"Do you always cook for the women you're trying to hire?"

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