Page 3 of His Wall

Mr. Cross. My stomach flipped again.

"Right," I said. "The brief."

"Yes, sir."

We went through the last two pages. She flagged a second clause in the noncompete that needed counter-language, and when we reached the end, she closed the folder in one clean motion and laid her hands flat on top of it.

"The board review is on Thursday. You'll want the five-year performance deck pulled. I can stay late tonight and put it together."

"That's analyst work."

"I don't mind."

"Claire."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Cross."

I looked at her across the desk. I wanted to ask her why.

"Fine."

She wrote something in her notebook. She didn't look up. "Anything else, Mr. Cross?"

"No. Thank you."

"Of course."

She gathered the folder, stood, and crossed the carpet back to her desk.

She looked up from her screen without lifting her head. "Mr. Cross. You are awaited at the conference room."

I pushed back from the desk.

Declan was on the phone when I walked in. He stood at the head of the table, one hand pressed flat on the packet in front of him, the other holding the phone to his ear. He lifted two fingers at me without breaking the call. Two minutes.

Nolan was already seated, both forearms on the table, fingers laced loose, black coffee steaming an inch from his elbow. He nodded once at me. I nodded back.

Claire came in behind me. She moved past my shoulder without brushing it, a stack of tabbed folders held against her forearm, a pitcher of water in her free hand.

She set the folders down at each seat. Mine. Nolan's. Declan's. A fourth at the empty chair beside him, in case he called anyone in. The pitcher went to the center of the table. She crossed to the far corner by the window and sat.

She opened the notebook on her lap.

I pulled out the chair across from Nolan and dropped into it.

Declan ended his call and slid the phone face down on the table. "Sorry. Halverson's counsel."

"He's being difficult."

"He's being a lawyer." Declan sat, flipped open the packet, and tapped the first tab with the end of his pen. "Let's go. Q3 close. Top line's up eleven percent over Q2, margin held. The drag we've got is the comp ratio. Any questions?"

"$7 pastries," I said.

He didn't look up. "What about them?"

"I'm just saying. Comp ratio."

"You ordered the pastries."