Chapter 24: The Pen

At ten on Monday morning, I walked into the Rotherham Logistics lobby with a chewed black pen in my fist.

Four hundred people stood along the walls in work jackets and clean shirts.

They did not cheer.

They just stood there, and the driver with the cap took it off as I passed.

Anson waited at the top of the stairs, in a gray suit, with his hands behind his back.

"Good morning, accountant."

"Good morning, Mr. Rotherham."

He led me into his office and shut the door.

Behind his desk, on a bare wall, hung a small frame.

In it was a check for one dollar, signed twice, in blue ink.

He had mounted it so that both sides showed, the signature on the front and the small blue B on the back.

"My mother gave that to me at breakfast," I said.

"And you gave it to me on Sunday night, in the garden."

"You said it was the only honest paper your family ever wrote."

"You asked me to hang it where my staff walk past it."

"It's a dollar."

"It's the best dollar in this building."

He pulled out a chair for me and did not sit.

On the desk lay three pieces of paper.

"You're the owner of this company," he said. "You bought it in front of four hundred witnesses."

"You paid thirty-three million eight hundred thousand and one dollars."

"I did."

"The first paper is a transfer. It hands the company back to me at cost, payable over ten years."

"Interest at nothing. You'd sign as Abigail Whitcroft."

"Why at nothing?"

"Because you're the only person alive who would audit it to the penny."

"I'd like to be audited by you for the next ten years."

I picked up the paper and read it twice.

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