Page 18 of Emil

“There are serious discrepancies in the files, and it appears to be linked to a single login. Money has been moved around in what appears to be a pattern designed to evade notice. Funds have also been withdrawn or transferred to an unusual account.”

“Do you know who owns that account?”

The man from finance glanced at the other representative. She cleared her throat before she answered, “We think so. It’s someone who works in accounting.” She glanced at the open door but didn’t speak or give a name. While John and his mother sneered, the finance people looked ill.

I pushed myself away from the desk with the intent to close my office door, but I hadn’t even stood up before John shouted, “Anders. Sweet little Anders has been robbing this company blind. It’s absolute bullshit after everything my family has done for him. He’s been fucking stealing from us, from this company, running our asses into the ground, and the whole time pretending I’m so mean to him. I ought to call the fucking cops on his ass.”

What. The. Fuck?

“Shut that goddamn door,” I said to John’s mother. “You’re in HR. Can you not manage some discretion?” She had the decency to flush red, but didn’t move fast enough to suit me. “Move.” That was enough to send her scurrying across the carpet.

John had said it loudly enough that I had no doubt half the office heard the accusation. I turned my gaze back to him. “Don’t say one more fucking word.”

Then I turned to the finance team. “How are you so sure it traces back to Anders?”

“First, let me say I’m shocked that Anders’s name came up. To the best of my knowledge, he’s been an outstanding employee who goes above and beyond for this company.”

“Noted.”

“We started noticing discrepancies. The logins were at odd times. Not during business hours. They were coming late at night or on weekends. When we traced the account, no receivables were coming in from the address provided or the phone number.”

“We were able to trace the address but not the phone number attached to the payments,” the man added.

“So where’s the address?”

“It’s a post office box. The registered user is S. Redna.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? No one is that dumb.”

“I wish I were kidding, Mr. Magnuson. Please understand that I checked these numbers incredibly closely before bringing this to anyone’s attention. I didn’t want to believe it either.” She paused, then added, “The losses are significant, and most of them are related to one specific area.”

“Which one?”

“It’s for community giving. A few years ago, we created a dedicated stream of community giving. Anders championed the idea. He was the point person for it and spearheaded a project. Most, well, some projects have been funded, but what’s being paid out is significantly more than the grants being paid into the community. They are being split. The community organization gets something, but then double or triple the amount goes to this other account.”

“When did this start?”

“It wasn’t discovered until recently.”

“Why now?” I asked.

“We accepted Anders’s numbers because we had no reason to think anything was off. The books were clean. The…uh, merger brought it to our attention.”

I silently scoffed at her choice of words. However, this was the type of paperwork shenanigans my accountants had already flagged. No one in this room needed to know we’d already discovered the discrepancies in the accounting process.

“This is fucking bullshit. That asshole has been robbing my family, and don’t think I didn’t notice how the minute you walked into this office, our relationship was suddenly in trouble, but he’s all over your ass⁠—”

“If you do not shut your goddamn mouth, you won’t have a job here, and I don’t give a blessed goddamn if it’s your family’s company,” I bit out. “This isn’t going any further until we speak to Anders directly.”

I turned to my computer and sent a quick message to Anders. I got an immediate reply saying he was on his way, less than thirty seconds out.

There was a hesitant knock on my door. I invited Anders in, and the room’s tension increased tenfold. John and his mother were in the corner, looking like cats with a mouse to torture, and the finance people looked like they’d prefer an IRS audit to talking with Anders here.

“You wanted to see me?” Anders asked.

It was a question, but the dread in his voice was obvious. He looked as he always did: braids in a bun, slacks, pressed shirt, tidy. The bags under his eyes were pronounced, the kind no amount of concealer could hide. He was exhausted, and I was about to make things worse.

“Yes. Come in. Please shut the door behind you.”