I thought he was the one who reported the problems. Gerald said that's one version. Richard said smoothly. What I found suggests the situation may have been considerably more complicated. I'd like to show you what I have before we bring it to the full board.
He set the phone down and looked at the window of his office. The Atlanta skyline, the company Henry Caldwell had built from two rooms and a folding table. Richard had spent 11 years in this building. He was not going to let a handyman from Cedar Falls dismantle what he'd built in those 11 years. He opened his laptop.
He started to write. Across town in the offices of the Caldwell Group's legal department, a parallegal named Tessa Yon was working late. She was processing routine document requests when she noticed something unusual. A third party background check on a private individual had been filed internally without going through Emily Caldwell's office. It had come from Richard Hayes's division directly.
Tessa stared at it for a moment. She filed it the way she was supposed to, but she wrote the name down on a small piece of paper and put it in her pocket. Marcus Williams. She'd heard that name somewhere recently, somewhere informal, the kind of place where you heard things that were true before they became official. She finished her work, turned off her desk lamp, went home.
She almost threw the piece of paper away twice on the way. She didn't. That weekend, Marcus finished framing the new section of the farmhouse's east wing. It was good work, clean lines, solid lumber, the kind of carpentry that didn't announce itself, but would hold for 50 years without being asked to. He stood back and looked at it the way he always did when something came together right.
Not with pride exactly, with satisfaction. The specific satisfaction of a thing done correctly. Emily appeared at 3:00 in the afternoon as she had most weekends ostensibly to check the project's progress, which was a legitimate reason, and also increasingly something else. She walked the new framing without speaking, pressed her palm flat against a joint, tested it, moved to the next one. "You're quiet today," Marcus said.
She turned to look at him. "I heard something," she said. "There it was. He'd known it was coming. He'd been waiting for it the way you wait for something you've been dreading.
The specific combination of relief and dread that arrives when the thing you feared finally shows up. "What did you hear?" he asked. She held his gaze. "That you left Brentwell Construction under complicated circumstances. That there's a question about your involvement in some kind of internal misconduct issue." Marcus felt it hit him.
Not in his face. His face stayed exactly where it was, in his chest. that deep specific hurt of a true thing being made ugly. Is that what they're saying? He said, "Is it true? Which version did you get?" She blinked.