Chapter 8: What He Sold

Nolan didn't ask me to come.

He waited by the stage door of the Valentine while the ballroom emptied and the staff stacked chairs.

I came out the side with Bridget, who looked at him, then at me.

"I'll be in the car," she said, "with the heater and a bag of rolls."

She walked away.

The alley smelled of rain and burnt sugar.

Nolan stood with his hands in his coat pockets.

"I'll give you ten minutes," I said.

"I don't need ten."

"Then I'll take the other nine."

He almost smiled.

It went away fast.

"Colm lent me four million dollars two years ago," he said.

"Personally.

I needed it to buy the shares the trust didn't cover, so I'd have a vote on the sale."

"You borrowed money to steal my father's company."

"Yes."

"With what as collateral?"

"Everything I own," he said.

His voice caught on the last word.

"If the sale dies, Colm takes all of it."

I leaned on the brick wall.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I was twenty-nine years old and nothing felt more important than finishing it."

"And now?"

He looked at me.

"I'd burn every one of them," he said.

"Just to have you walk out of that hall the first time and not have been at fault."

"That's not an answer," I said.

"It's the only one I have."

He reached inside his coat.

I braced.

He pulled out a flash drive and a stack of paper, thick and folded, with a rubber band.

"Everything," he said.

"The loan, the side letters, the emails with Colm and Roland, the payment schedule.

The real plan."

"What real plan?"

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