“Both, probably.”
I told him everything.
Chloe on the porch. The divorce papers. The employee review. The house. The family. The eight years of silence.
Thomas did not interrupt. Thomas was sixty-two, dry as old wood, and had represented my company since before I could afford anyone half as sharp. He had the gift of making silence feel like a weapon being sharpened.
When I finished, he said, “All right. We move cleanly.”
“Tell me.”
“First, we protect Chloe. Second, we protect the company. Third, we correct the false financial picture your wife’s attorney is trying to create. Nobody acts emotionally. Nobody sends angry messages. Nobody improvises.”
“I already left.”
“Good. Stay gone for now. In the morning, you go to your office. Wear a suit.”
I looked down at my soaked work boots by the hotel heater.
“A suit.”
“You are done playing the role they wrote for you.”
The next morning, I left a note for Chloe with room service money and instructions not to open the door for anyone except me or the hotel manager. She was still asleep, one hand tucked under her cheek, looking younger than sixteen.
I changed in the cramped hotel bathroom into the navy suit I kept in my truck for investor meetings and emergency contract negotiations. Nothing flashy. Clean lines. White shirt. Dark tie. The man in the mirror looked tired, but he no longer looked accommodating.
Whitaker Home Solutions headquarters stood on Harrington Drive, a glass-fronted building Evelyn’s father had driven past a dozen times without ever realizing my name was on the documents inside. I parked my mud-splattered Ford in the executive lot, walked past reception, and took the private elevator to the top floor.
My office looked out over the city.
At 8:45, Marcus, my director of human resources, entered with fourteen folders.
Marcus was precise, loyal, and almost impossible to rattle. He set the stack on my desk and said, “The packets are ready. Access has been suspended pending final action. Company cards are frozen. Legal has the backup files.”
“The thirty-three clean employees?”
“Protected. No action. I recommend retention conversations and, where needed, reassignment away from Sterling supervision lines.”
“Good.”
He waited.
I looked at the clock.
“Send them at nine.”
At exactly 9:00 a.m., fourteen employment notices went out.
At 9:04, my cell phone rang.
Richard Sterling.
I let it ring three times before answering.
“Liam,” he barked, forcing warmth over fury and failing badly. “Some clown in your HR department just sent termination letters to Arthur and several members of this family. I need your supervisor’s number right now.”
I looked out at morning traffic moving far below the glass.
“You’re speaking to him.”