Chapter 6: The Partner's Desk

My boss's office has a window that overlooks a parking garage, and he had never once closed the blinds.

He closed them that Friday.

"Sit down, Pen," he said.

I have worked for him for seven years.

I have filed his motions, caught his typos and covered his mother's funeral flowers when he forgot.

I did not sit.

"What about Corvane?" I said.

He picked up a letter from his desk and put it down again without reading it.

"Their general counsel called me at eight this morning."

"On a Friday?"

"He said a paralegal from this office stood up in a church hall last night and told sixty people their loans were fraudulent."

"I said the notice was sloppy."

"He called it interference with a loan portfolio."

"It's a street," I said.

"It's where I grew up."

"They threatened a bar complaint against the firm."

"For what? Reading?"

He rubbed his eyes.

"There's a second call," he said.

"From Alcott Bank. They hold our line of credit."

My stomach went cold in a very specific way.

"Trent Alcott's father," I said.

"His son is about to marry your stepsister, and he asked me, kindly, whether this firm's staff are free to harass his family."

"Harass his family."

"He says you embarrassed Chelsea at the clerk's office."

"I told her mother I'd read a listing agreement."

"Pen."

"I'm fired," I said.

He said nothing, and that was the answer.

"The firm can't afford the credit line," he said at last.

"You know that. You've seen the books."

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