Whitmore turned.
"Naomi Bennett. Who put her in that room?"
The man hesitated.
"I don't know."
Whitmore's face hardened.
"Find out."
The executive looked worried.
"Perhaps it's a coincidence."
Whitmore laughed bitterly.
"A coincidence?"
He gestured toward the empty table.
"A woman who challenged Revision 19 just happens to be serving lunch when Raymond signs it?"
The executive didn't answer.
Whitmore looked toward the leather folder.
His expression twisted.
For months, he had believed the internal concern at Northbridge was contained.
The analyst had been removed.
The alert had been marked resolved.
The transaction continued.
He had not expected to see her again.
And certainly not in a waitress uniform.
He had thought her silence was proof that the problem had disappeared.
Instead, he had publicly challenged her to demonstrate a skill he assumed she didn't possess.
He had drawn attention to the one person in the room who understood the discrepancy.
And in trying to humiliate her, he had given her an opportunity to speak directly to the investor he most needed to reassure.
Whitmore looked toward his executive.
"Get Martin Pell on the phone."
The man nodded.
Then Whitmore added something that revealed how he still understood the situation.
"And find out how much she wants."
The executive hesitated.
"Who?"
"The waitress."
Whitmore's expression hardened.
"Everybody has a price."
He believed that.
He had built much of his career around it.
And he was about to discover that not every problem could be solved by offering money to the person who noticed it.
By the time I returned to the restaurant's main floor, the lunch service was nearly finished.
I had been sitting in the employee break room for more than an hour, writing down everything I remembered at Rachel's request.
The exact words Whitmore used.
The moment he threw the menu.
The wager.
What I saw on the open contract.
What I said in Cantonese.
Mr. Lam's response.
And Whitmore's threat.
Teresa stayed with me whenever her tables allowed.
She brought water, reminded me to eat, and corrected me when I began blaming myself for losing control of the situation.
"You didn't throw anything," she said.
I looked up from my notebook.
"I know."
"You didn't start that bet."
"I know."
"And you didn't make that man change a financial document."
I sighed.
"Teresa."
She folded her arms.
"I'm going to keep saying it until you stop looking guilty."
I almost smiled.
She sat beside me.
For several seconds, we were quiet.
Then I looked toward her.
"What if I lose this job?"