Chapter 13: Owning It

I called Sheree at eleven-fifteen at night.

She picked up on the first ring, which meant she was still at the office.

"Year-end dividends," I said. "Last three years. Pull the bank side, not the board packet."

"Give me ten minutes."

It took her six.

Jeb sat across Granny's kitchen table from me with his ham going cold.

Neither of us touched a fork.

When my phone buzzed, I put it on speaker and set it between the plates.

"Declared every December," Sheree said. "Board call, minutes, all pretty."

"And every January, a reversal. Moved to something called a growth reserve."

"Who signed the reversals?"

"Bentley. All three."

She let that sit.

"Same three years, his salary went from a hundred and eighty to four-fifty."

Jeb put both hands flat on the binder.

He didn't say anything. His jaw said it for him.

"Torrie," Sheree said, softer. "You signed off those year-end packets."

"I know."

"Did you ever open the bank page?"

I looked at the column of harvest money in Jeb's binder.

"No," I said. "I never did."

***

The pie supper was Saturday night at the community hall.

Somebody had strung white lights across the rafters.

Breanne stood at the door in a sundress, handing out paper plates and fat white envelopes.

Her mama had the clipboard.

Every family in the Hollow came, even the ones who'd promised us they wouldn't open a thing.

Jeb and I sat at the back by the coffee urn.

Bentley climbed onto the little stage where the Christmas pageant happened.

He'd bought a flannel shirt. It still had the fold lines.

"I'm not here to buy anybody," he said. "I'm here to tell you the truth."

"Your fund owns most of my old company. So ask yourselves something."

Keep reading free with an account. Start My Tribal Rule Said Marry Or Matchmake from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.