She did not ask if I wanted to return the calls, because she already knew the answer. We had spent three years building Aegis Ledger from a two-room office in a basement into a compliance firm that monitored eighty million dollars in transaction flows.
“Did she leave a message?” I asked.
“Only that it was urgent,” Nadia said. “She asked for your direct assistant, but she did not use your name when she spoke to the receptionist.”
She walked over to the desk and laid a green folder on the blotter, right next to the silver paperweight. The label on the tab was blank, but the red sticker on the corner meant it came from our high-priority queue.
“The bank consortium acquisition is moving to the final stage,” she said.
I stopped the paperweight with my palm, holding it still.
“We need to go across the street,” I said.
I slid the phone into my pocket, the quiet vibration still thrumming against my thigh as I stood up and reached for my coat.
The counter at the bakery across the street was sticky with spilled sugar from the early morning rush.
I ordered two black coffees from the boy behind the register, handing him a ten-dollar bill and waiting for the change. The room was noisy with the sound of metal spoons hitting ceramic cups and the low hum of the morning commuters talking over the news. There was no smell of fresh coffee in the air, only the heavy scent of stale lemon cake sitting in a cardboard box on the back counter.
Nadia sat at the small corner table by the window, her tablet already open on the laminate surface. She had printed out the active acquisition list, the paper smelling of fresh toner as she laid it flat between our cups.
