Chapter 7
“Thank you, Gregory.”
“There is one more thing,” Gregory added, his tone softening slightly. “Andrew requested an in-person meeting at my office for tomorrow morning at ten. He asked if the trustor would be present.”
I paused. My finger traced the edge of my desk calendar.
“Tell him the trustor will be there,” I said.
The conference room at Shaw & Associates was located on the eighteenth floor of the IDS Center, overlooking Nicollet Mall. It was a room designed for sober realities—dark walnut paneling, leather chairs that didn't creak, and large windows that let in the cold, unsparing northern light.
I arrived at 9:45 a.m., wearing a tailored charcoal wool trousers and a cream silk blouse. No old coat. No protective disguise. Just myself, exactly as I was when I sat across from my board of directors.
Gregory sat at the head of the table, his rimless glasses perched low on his nose, two thick leather binders open before him.
At 9:58 a.m., the conference room door opened.
Andrew walked in.
He was not wearing the triumphant tuxedo from three nights ago. He wore a navy blazer that looked slightly rumpled, an open-collared dress shirt, and shoes that hadn't been polished since the storm. His face was drawn, gray shadows pooled beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was uncharacteristically messy.
Behind him walked Celeste.
She wore a simple black wool coat, buttoned all the way up to her collar, carrying a leather tote bag rather than her usual designer clutch. Her eyes were red-rimmed, devoid of mascara, her gaze fixed entirely on the carpet.
When Andrew looked up and saw me sitting on the other side of the mahogany table, he stopped dead in his tracks.
His throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. “Meredith.”
“Sit down, Andrew. Celeste,” I said, gesturing to the two empty chairs across from me.
Celeste pulled out her chair quietly, sitting down without looking at me. Andrew remained standing for three long seconds, his chest rising and falling heavily, before he finally dropped into his seat, his hands resting flat on the polished wood.
“I asked Gregory for a meeting with the trustor,” Andrew said, his voice hoarse, scraping like gravel. “I didn't think you’d actually show up. I thought you’d hide behind your lawyers.”
“I’ve never hidden from you, Andrew,” I replied, keeping my hands folded in my lap. “You hid from me. For three years, you looked me in the eye at Sunday dinners, made fun of my car, insulted my clothes, and let me write the checks that kept the sheriff from locking your front door.”