Chapter 6: The Board Seat

The Whitcroft Holdings boardroom was on the fortieth floor, with windows on three sides.

A dozen people sat around a table of black glass.

My father took the head chair and smiled down the table at me.

"Colleagues," he said. "My daughter Abigail."

"Abby," I said.

Nobody answered. Every pair of eyes went over me and priced me.

Anson sat at the far end as a guest of the chair, his face blank.

We had not spoken since Monday, in his glass boardroom, and I was not going to start.

A stack of thick binders sat in front of each seat.

Mine had my name on the cover, in gold.

I opened it to the first page, and then I looked up at the man on my left.

He was the chief financial officer, a soft, bald man in a tight collar.

"I'd like the backup behind the foundation ledger," I said. "Every line item from the last quarter."

He smiled so hard his collar creaked.

"That's quite a lot of paper, Miss Whitcroft."

"Miss Rudkin," I said. "I'm good with paper."

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

"I'll have it sent to your room."

"Today, please."

"Of course. Today."

The handkerchief did not leave his hand for the rest of the meeting.

I kept reading.

Revenue by division. Fuel costs. Warehouse leases.

On page fourteen, under Parcel Handling, there was a small line.

HANDLING VARIANCE (NET). Two million one hundred thousand units. A tiny negative number beside each.

I put my finger on it, and I did the arithmetic in my head.

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