Chapter 10 — Nothing Left to Prove

Peter answered within twenty minutes.

Thank you for forwarding this. Your statement will remain in the review file. Please direct any further contact about the project to me.

I read the email, then opened Bennett’s conversation again.

There was another message.

At least have the decency to answer.

I blocked his number.

My thumb hovered over the screen afterward.

For years, I had believed refusing to continue a conversation made me unreasonable. Bennett had always been willing to explain that in considerable detail.

Now there was nobody on the other end telling me what the decision meant.

I put the phone down and returned to the title pages.

Mia watched from across the table.

“What happened?”

“I blocked him.”

She nodded.

Then she handed me a stack of finished covers.

We worked until six.

On Tuesday morning, I chose trousers, a soft blue blouse, and shoes that would not punish me for standing.

The bruise on my arm had faded to yellow.

I checked the calendar twice, packed copies of my statement, and went to Charles Price’s office.

Ronan called while I was in the elevator.

“Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in the conference room.”

“You could have mentioned you were attending.”

“I mentioned it yesterday.”

I stopped.

He had.

While I was trying to calculate whether we could finish an order before the client changed the guest list again.

“Apparently, my attention has limits.”

“Your client added seventeen people while we were speaking.”

“Nineteen. Two were hidden in the attachment.”

“I’ll see you in a moment.”

The elevator doors opened.

A receptionist directed me down a corridor.

Peter met me outside the conference room.

“Thank you for coming. We’ll start with your records, then you’re free to leave. You aren’t required for the rest of the discussion.”

“Good.”

He gave me a brief, understanding smile.

Inside, Charles sat at the head of the table.

Ronan was beside Adrian, whom I recognized from the photograph attached to one of his emails. A woman introduced herself as the independent consultant reviewing the project materials.

Bennett sat near the other end.

He looked at me when I entered.

I looked at the empty chair Peter indicated.

Then I sat.

The consultant opened a folder.

“Miss Finch, you supplied these production files?”

“Yes.”

She showed me the cover page.

I confirmed the order dates, the source of the supplied documents, and the services my studio had performed.

“Did you alter any of the land descriptions?”

“No. We adjusted layout, typography, and page order. Changes to the content came from the client.”

“Were those instructions retained?”

“Yes. They’re included in the correspondence.”

She nodded and moved to the next file.

It was the old map.

I recognized the access line and the label we had moved.

Bennett leaned forward.

“Laurel wasn’t involved in the substance of the project. I think that should be clear.”

“It is clear,” the consultant said. “She’s confirming the origin and handling of these records.”

“I just don’t want an assumption that her interpretation is authoritative.”

I looked at him.

“That’s why I supplied the documents.”

He turned toward me.

“Your statement describes—”

“My statement describes what I worked on and what I remembered. The people qualified to assess the land status are doing that.”

The consultant nodded.

“They are.”

Bennett sat back.

His foot moved beneath the table.

I remembered that restless movement from arguments in restaurants. He would look composed above the table while the heel of one shoe beat against the floor.

The consultant finished her questions.

“Thank you. Those records are consistent with the project archive.”

I closed my folder.

Peter said, “You’re welcome to leave now.”

I was about to stand when Bennett spoke.

“Before she does, I’d like her to acknowledge that the timing was deliberate.”

Charles looked up.

“No.”

“I’m entitled to respond.”

“To the documents. Not to her attendance at your wedding.”

Bennett’s face tightened.

“She brought the principal investor into a private situation.”

I set my folder on the table again.

“You invited me with a guest.”

“You knew what you were doing.”

“I knew I didn’t want to attend alone. I didn’t know you were running this project until your father-in-law announced it.”

Ronan remained quiet.

I was grateful.

I didn’t want Bennett leaving the room convinced someone else had spoken for me.

“You can dislike how the question arose,” I continued. “It doesn’t change the report.”

The consultant turned a page.

“On that point, the review has established a discrepancy between the current site conditions and the assumptions presented in the revised investment summary.”

Bennett looked toward her.

“It was a working document.”

“It was circulated for investment review.”

“Subject to revision.”

“Yes,” she said. “And the unresolved restriction should have been identified as an unresolved restriction.”

She placed two pages side by side.

One was the technical report.

The other was the summary.

I could see the dates at the top.

The report came first.

Bennett stared at them.

Charles folded his hands.

“You received the report before approving the summary.”

“Yes.”

“And you knew the designation had not changed.”

“We expected approval before acquisition.”

“That wasn’t what you were asked.”

Bennett rubbed his mouth.

For once, nobody hurried to offer him a better answer.

Finally, he said, “Yes. I knew it hadn’t changed yet.”

The admission settled into the room.

No gasp.

No dramatic collapse.

A fact, finally spoken without decoration.

The consultant pointed to the revised wording.

“This section presents the proposed commercial use without adequately stating the existing restriction. The financial assumptions also need to be reconsidered if the proposed change is delayed or refused.”

Bennett looked at Ronan.

“We can revise it.”

“You should,” Ronan said. “My company won’t proceed under the current proposal.”

Charles turned toward him.

“Understood.”

Something inside me relaxed.

The decision belonged to the people responsible for it.

I had supplied what I knew.

That was all.

I stood.

“Unless there are more questions about the studio records, I need to get back to work.”

“There aren’t,” Peter said.

Charles rose.

“Thank you, Miss Finch.”

I nodded.

Bennett looked as though he wanted to say something.

I picked up my folder and left before he could make that my responsibility too.

In the corridor, Arabella sat near the reception desk.

She stood when she saw me.

I hadn’t expected her.

“Laurel.”

“Arabella.”

She wore a pale suit, her wedding ring bright against the strap of her bag.

“Did you hear what they found?”

“Only the part relevant to my records.”

“My father told me enough.”

She looked toward the conference room.

“I told Bennett not to contact you.”

“He did anyway.”

“Yes. I know.”

There was a silence.

Then she said, “What I said at the wedding was cruel.”

I hadn’t prepared for that.

She looked directly at me.

“I wanted you to feel uncomfortable. I told myself it was because you’d arrived with him and changed the evening. But I started that conversation. You hadn’t done anything to me.”

“No,” I said. “I hadn’t.”

Her fingers tightened around the bag.

“I’m sorry.”

I studied her face.

There was no audience this time.

“Thank you for saying it.”

She nodded.

I didn’t tell her it was fine.

She didn’t ask me to.

As I moved toward the elevator, she spoke again.

“Did he always speak to you that way?”

I turned.

“Not at first.”

Her face changed.

“He made it seem like concern,” I said. “That was the part that took me longest to understand.”

She looked down.

“What you do with that is yours to decide,” I added.

“I know.”

I believed she was beginning to.

At the studio, Mia had left a sandwich on my desk.

Beside it sat a note.

Eat before making decisions.

I obeyed.

Then I opened my email.

A client I had spent two weeks preparing a proposal for had accepted it.

A full stationery package for a regional arts festival.

Our largest independent commission that year.

I read the message twice.

Then I walked into the workroom.

“We got it.”

Mia looked up.

“The festival?”

“Yes.”

She put both hands on the table.

“Please tell me you didn’t discount the second production run.”

“I didn’t.”

She cheered loudly enough to startle the courier outside.

We celebrated for approximately forty seconds.

Then we began calculating how to deliver it.

Ronan called an hour later.

“It’s finished,” he said.

“The meeting?”

“Yes. Bennett has been removed from the project leadership. Charles is withdrawing the current package and commissioning a revised assessment.”

“And your company?”

“We’ve declined the proposal.”

I looked at the festival email.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“How are you?”

“Hungry again. Apparently, surviving a meeting takes two lunches.”

“Would you like dinner?”

I smiled.

“Yes. But come here.”

“To the studio?”

“No. My apartment. I’ve got a kitchen and some surprisingly ambitious plans involving chicken.”

A pause.

“Should I bring anything?”

“Something to drink.”

“I can do that.”

“And Ronan?”

“Yes?”

“We got the festival contract.”

He knew which one.

“You did.”

“We did.”

“Congratulations.”

His voice warmed in a way I had begun to recognize.

I looked around my studio.

At the crowded shelves.

The stained worktable.

The people who trusted me to keep the place going.

“I’d like to celebrate,” I said.

“With chicken?”

“With you.”

This time, I let the silence stay.

Then he said, “I’ll be there at seven.”