Chapter 11: All Hands

The Fieldstone atrium had a glass ceiling and a hundred and forty folding chairs.

At ten o'clock every chair was full.

Martin Soames stood at the podium, in his loud tie, looking pleased with himself.

Whitney Dole sat in the front row in a cream suit with her legs crossed.

She had not stopped smiling since she walked in.

"We take this matter very seriously," Martin was saying. "A second leak from within our own walls, by a junior employee we trusted..."

I came through the side door at ten past.

I wore a charcoal suit that fit.

My hair was loose, my glasses were in my pocket, and the board of Marlowe Group walked behind me in a straight line.

The chairman was last.

He gave me a look that said, You owe me a long vacation.

The room hushed in ripples, from the back to the front.

I walked up the center aisle.

Every head turned.

I heard someone whisper, "That's Dara."

I heard someone else whisper, "That's not Dara."

Martin stopped in the middle of a word.

"Ms. Ross?" he said. "You can't be here. You've been..."

I stepped up to the podium and he moved aside, because the chairman was looking at him.

I leaned toward the microphone.

"Good morning," I said. "My name is Delaney Thwaite."

The silence changed shape.

"I'm the president of Marlowe Group," I said. "I bought this studio four months ago. For the past eight days, I've been your intern."

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