“He’s dragging his feet on the signature,” Derek was saying, his voice carrying clearly down the wood-paneled hallway. “I’m sitting here watching him sign personal checks like he still has twenty years left.”
There was a brief pause, the sound of the receiver crackling against his ear.
“No, he doesn’t suspect a thing,” Derek continued, his tone dropping into a sharp, dismissive rasp. “The old man is fading quickly, six months at most. He’s just a walking bag of money at this point, but we need that signature before the transition papers lock him out on November 15.”
I stood perfectly still in the shadow of the door, my hand hovering an inch from the brass knob. The draft from the hallway smelled faintly of pine floor cleaner and old carpets, a scent that had defined this house since Anna and I first bought it.
“Just have the termination files ready for the cleaning crew,” Derek said, his voice receding slightly as he walked toward the stairs. “Once I have the board’s approval, we clear out the dead weight starting with the night shifts.”
