“Why?”
“Nothing.”
He studied her.
“You’re doing the mysterious-rich-person thing.”
“What is that?”
“Saying ‘nothing’ like it definitely means something.”
For the first time that night, she smiled fully.
It changed her whole face.
“Good night.”
He started toward the truck.
Then she called:
“Wait.”
He turned.
She rolled closer.
“You never asked my name.”
He realized she was right.
He shrugged.
“You looked cold.”
“That was enough?”
“Yes.”
The woman looked at him for a long moment.
Then:
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“Get the brake replaced.”
“I will.”
“Not optional.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“Good night, mechanic.”
He smiled.
“Good night, mysterious rich person.”
He drove away.
Only after his truck disappeared did the hotel manager approach her carefully.
“Board counsel is waiting upstairs.”
The woman’s smile vanished.
“Of course.”
“And your fiancé has called fourteen times.”
Her jaw tightened.
“He isn’t my fiancé.”
The manager blinked.
She rolled toward the elevator.
“Not anymore.”
Upstairs, her penthouse suite looked over the snow-covered city.
The board counsel stood beside the windows.
A stack of binders covered the dining table.
The woman removed the single father’s warmth from her shoulders metaphorically if not physically; his jacket smell of cold air, metal, and laundry soap still seemed present even after returning it.
The counsel watched her enter.
“What happened?”
“Later.”
“You missed the executive call.”
“I know.”
“The board votes on Riverside at nine.”
“I know.”
“Your former fiancé told them you support closure.”
The woman stopped.
“What?”
The counsel’s expression changed.
“He said you authorized him to proceed.”
“I did not.”
“He circulated your preliminary memorandum.”
“That memo requested alternatives.”
“He characterized it as approval.”
The woman felt cold again.
Different cold.
“Pull every Riverside financial report from the last eighteen months.”
The counsel frowned.
“We have them.”
“Raw reports.”
“Warranty allocation.”
“Supplier changes.”
“Traceable return data.”
The counsel stared.
“Why?”
The woman thought of the truck.
The factory worker speaking without knowing who she was.
Numbers are obedient.
“I think somebody taught the numbers to lie.”
The counsel became very still.
The woman continued:
“And delay the vote.”
“On what authority?”
“Mine.”
“The board will ask why.”
“Tell them the owner wants to see the factory before closing it.”
The counsel looked toward her wheelchair.
“You planned to visit anyway.”
“Yes.”
“In three days.”
“Plans changed.”
The counsel nodded toward her coat.
“Is this connected to whatever happened tonight?”
The woman looked toward the snow beyond the windows.
“Yes.”
“How?”
She smiled faintly.
“A stranger repaired my wheelchair at a bus stop.”
The counsel stared.
“Okay.”
“He works at Riverside.”
The counsel stared harder.