She opened the folder just enough for me to see the red stamp marked confidential across the top of the first page. It was an internal memorandum detailing an unauthorized four-point-eight-million-dollar variance in the marketing division’s account.
“The board has questions about several wire transfers directed to a consulting firm in Delaware,” Evelyn said, sliding the folder back under her arm. “They are holding the formal ratification until the compliance team reviews these invoices.”
“Who authorized the payments?” I asked.
“The signatures on the authorization forms match Adrian’s digital certificate,” Evelyn said, her voice remaining perfectly even.
The elevator doors at the end of the corridor slid open, and the sound of Adrian’s loud, confident voice drifted into the quiet lobby as he spoke to a group of junior analysts. He was wearing his gray wool suit, his red tie bright against the white of his shirt.
I turned away before he could see me, my hand instinctively reaching for the gold band on my finger.
The drive back to our suburban house took forty minutes through the morning traffic, the radio turned off, the only sound the steady click of the turn signal. The driveway was empty when I pulled in, the autumn leaves scattering across the stone path leading to the front door.
