“Not if he changed the locks while you were folding laundry,” Clara said.
She reached across the table and took my hand, her palm warm and dry.
“We need to find out exactly what he did with the accounts,” she said.
The lobby of Hollis Transit Systems smelled of rain on the old limestone steps outside. The heels of my black pumps clicked against the polished marble floor as I walked toward the receptionist desk.
Paige Ellison, our thirty-five-year-old communications director, stood by the glass counter holding a thick stack of glossy press releases.
She wore a tailored red skirt that she smoothed down with both hands as I approached.
“Adrian is in a private meeting, Mrs. Lane,” Paige said, her voice a sharp, hushed whisper. “We are managing some very delicate corporate shifts today.”
“I am here to see my husband, Paige.”
“He is very busy with the board,” she said, her eyes lingering on my plain woolen coat. “The company has to move forward, and some roles simply become redundant.”
I looked past her to the double doors of the executive suite, the ones with the gold lettering.
