Chapter 6 - The Sound of the Floor
The boardroom was dead silent, save for the distinct, rhythmic sound of a pink crayon moving across a piece of paper beneath the table.
Scribble. Scribble.
Desmond Kline looked around the table. He saw the faces of the board members—men he had known for fifteen years, men he had played golf with at the country club in Brookline—and he saw the exact moment their loyalty dissolved. In real estate, as in nature, no one stays with a wounded wolf when the alpha comes back to the den.
"Julian," Desmond whispered, his hands beginning to shake against his trousers. "We can talk about this. The Vane accounts—it was a contingency fund. A hedge against the municipal delays."
"The state of New York calls it grand larceny, Desmond," Julian said. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, the way he used to look when a subcontractor tried to explain why the concrete foundation was four days late. "The FBI compliance team is currently downstairs in the lobby. I suggested they wait until the market closed, but they seemed rather enthusiastic about the New Hampshire zip code."
Two security guards in Ashford-Kline uniforms stepped into the room from the rear doors. They didn't look at Julian; they looked at Desmond.
"You're done, Desmond," Julian said. "Take your coat. Leave the briefcase. My assistant will mail your personal effects to the minimum-security facility of your choice."
Desmond stood frozen for three seconds, his eyes darting between Julian, Marisol, and the documents on the table. For a moment, it looked like he might scream, or lung across the quartz, but the presence of the two guards and the cold, unyielding weight of Julian's gaze broke him completely. He picked up his coat with a hand that trembled violently and walked out of the room, his head down, his shoes making a dull, defeated sound against the carpet.
When the glass doors slid shut behind him, Julian exhaled, a long, quiet breath that seemed to lift a six-month weight from his chest.
He looked down the table at the remaining board members. "Now. Regarding the Hartford zoning variance. Miss Reyes has the updated logistics schedule. We are moving the staging area to the north lot to avoid the school zone traffic on Boylston. Any objections?"
The board members looked at each other, then at Marisol, who stood behind Julian’s chair like a monument in navy silk.
"No objections, Mr. Ashford," the senior board member said softly.
From beneath the table, a small head with two crooked pigtails popped up between Julian’s knees. Sofia looked at the long line of wealthy, terrified men in gray suits, then reached up and set a drawing on Julian’s lap.
It was a picture of a large, black square with wheels, and inside it, two smaller figures drawn in bright red crayon.
"That's you," Sofia said, pointing a sticky finger at the drawing. "And that's Mama. We're going to the juice store."
May you like
Julian looked down at the drawing, his left hand reaching out to gently touch the rough texture of the paper. For the first time in nine months, the corner of his mouth lifted in a genuine, unforced smile that reached all the way to his gray eyes.
"The logistics are still irregular, Sofia," he murmured, his voice softer than the board had ever heard it. "But I think we can approve the variance."
