I opened the top drawer of the desk and removed two envelopes.
Caleb’s name was written on one. Owen’s on the other.
I slid them across the desk.
Owen eyed his without touching it.
“What is this?”
“Not money yet.”
“That makes it sound worse.”
“A written commitment.”
Caleb opened his envelope.
His expression changed as he read.
“Profit share?”
“When the settlement arrives, five percent of the business-interruption payment will be divided between you.”
Owen stared at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You paid overtime.”
“Not enough for what you carried.”
“We did our jobs.”
“You did mine too.”
Caleb read the letter a second time.
“This is too much.”
“It is not.”
Owen glanced toward the ceiling, as if Noah might somehow be listening through the floor.
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.”
“He’ll agree with you,” Owen said.
“Yes.”
“That makes two of you wrong.”
Caleb folded the letter carefully along its original crease.
“You’re certain?”
