Chapter 1 - The Airport Photo
By nine fifteen Friday morning, thirty-seven people were pounding on the front doors of Carter Commercial Fixtures.
By nine twenty, I knew we couldn't pay them.
“Where's our money?!”
Someone hit the glass hard enough to shake the aluminum frame.
I stood inside the lobby staring at faces I'd known most of my adult life.
Installers.
Shop workers.
Drivers.
Office staff.
People who had mortgages due that week and kids starting school on Monday.
The doors were locked because our payroll manager had called me at 7:06 that morning and said the direct deposits had failed.
My father wasn't answering his phone.
“Daniel.”
Claire stood behind me.
My wife had come over after I called her from the parking lot and apparently sounded bad enough that she ignored the part where I told her not to.
“Check the reserve.”
“I am.”
I went into accounting.
The emergency safe was built into a cabinet beneath a row of old binders.
Dad kept cashier's checks there sometimes.
Petty cash.
Emergency payroll drafts.
Enough to survive a bank outage.
I entered the code.
Pulled the handle.
Empty.
Not nearly empty.
Empty.
My chest tightened.
I went to the computer.
Operating account.
$3,218.
Payroll needed just over $146,000.
Reserve account.
$812.
I stared at the numbers until Claire came in.
“How bad?”
I couldn't answer yet.
I pushed back from the desk and went straight to my father's office.
His passport normally stayed in the top drawer.
Gone.
The key hook beside the credenza was empty too.
His SUV wasn't in the lot.
I turned.
Mom was standing in the doorway.
Linda Carter had spent forty years telling people my father would find a way.
At sixty-two, she still said it with the same conviction.
“Where's Dad?”
Her eyes moved to his desk.
“Daniel—”
“Where is he?”
“Maybe he's trying to find a way to fix this.”
“What does that mean?”
Claire's phone vibrated behind me.
She looked down.
Her face changed.
“Daniel.”
She turned the screen.
The photo had come from one of her friends whose sister worked at Logan Airport.
My father was walking toward a boarding gate.
Carry-on suitcase.
Brown jacket.
Passport in one hand.
And beside him—
Rachel Moore.
Our former head of finance.
Rachel had worked here for eight years.
She had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' house twice.
She knew every account, every lender, every customer deposit and every weak spot in the company.
She had resigned six days earlier.
Dad told me she'd “burned out.”
Claire enlarged the picture.
“Wait.”
I looked at Rachel.
Then at Dad.
Then back.
“Rachel handled all the company finances.”
Mom's face lost color.
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
Claire's phone vibrated again.
A text.
From Rachel.
Claire read it once.
Then again.
“What did she say?”
She looked at me.
“He still thinks I have the money.”
The noise from outside seemed to disappear.
I took the phone.
He still thinks I have the money.
No explanation.
No amount.
No location.
I looked at Mom.
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
“Mom.”
She stared toward the empty safe.
“What money?”
Her mouth tightened.
Claire noticed before I did.
“You know.”
Mom shook her head.
“I don't know where it is.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
Mom looked at us.
Then toward the employees outside.
Finally she said:
“Richard wasn't supposed to know about Charlotte until today.”
I stared.
“What's in Charlotte?”
May you like
Mom whispered:
“The reason Rachel quit.”
