Chapter 5: Broken Glass

By three o'clock, Reeve Partners had my health insurance.

By four, Maggie had texted: "My spare room has a futon and a cat named Dennis. Your lease can burn."

I sat at my new desk with a plain white mug and a view of the river.

For the first time all week, I felt safe.

At seven, Tobias and I took the Marlowe CFO to dinner.

It was a steakhouse with white tablecloths and low lamps, and she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and said it was on her.

"I don't tip anyone who gives me slide decks," she told the waiter. "But I tip people who know my carriers."

She lifted her glass to me.

I lifted mine.

I was halfway to a real smile when the waiter came back with a bottle of champagne on ice.

"Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," he said.

I turned.

Porter sat at the end of the bar in his charcoal suit, alone, with a drink in front of him he hadn't touched.

He lifted two fingers at me.

The waiter set a folded card by my plate.

It was in Porter's square handwriting, the same writing that had signed twelve years of birthday cards.

It said: "Friday. Bring a pen. G."

The CFO looked at the card and then at me.

"A friend?" she asked.

"A former colleague," I said.

My right hand had closed around the stem of my glass.

I felt it before I understood it.

The glass cracked, and the bowl split along one side, and a piece of it went into the heel of my hand.

Red ran down my wrist and into my sleeve.

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