Chapter 3 - Ninety Seconds
The next afternoon, Clara heard Otto Brennan begging.
She hadn’t meant to listen.
Visitors were coming upstairs.
Her bucket blocked the hallway.
With nowhere else to go, she slipped behind a cabinet outside Raphael’s library.
Then Brennan walked past.
Clara recognized his voice before she saw his face.
Eight years vanished.
Her ankle throbbed.
Inside the library, a glass touched the desk.
“Water?” Raphael asked.
“Thank you.”
“Tell me about Howerin.”
A pause.
“The dockworker?”
“The man who fell during a night shift. The man whose wife has been asking where his insurance money went.”
“There are procedures.”
“There’s also a bank account in your company’s name.”
Brennan started talking faster.
Accounting mistakes.
Delayed claims.
People who no longer worked for him.
Raphael let him finish.
Then he said, “You have ninety seconds.”
“For what?”
“To explain why a paralyzed man’s children are eating groceries supplied by their church while you’re buying another boat.”
“Raphael—”
“Ninety seconds. That’s how long they think he crawled before somebody heard him.”
Something clicked.
A watch placed on wood.
“I measured the distance.”
Clara squeezed her cleaning cloth until water ran over her wrists.
Brennan offered repayment.
Then double.
Then triple.
When the silence became unbearable, he said, “Think about your wedding.”
“I am.”
“Evelyn is my daughter.”
“And Howerin has two.”
Raphael called Milo.
The driver entered.
Clara braced herself.
Instead, Raphael said, “Mr. Brennan is signing the restitution agreement his attorney reviewed this morning. Afterward, take copies to Howerin’s lawyer.”
“And if I refuse?” Brennan asked.
“Then the records go where your lawyer told you they would.”
When Brennan came out, Clara turned her face toward the wall.
Too late.
His footsteps stopped.
“Well,” he said softly.
She couldn’t breathe.
“I wondered where you ended up.”
Raphael appeared behind him.
“You know Clara?”
Brennan smiled.
“Her father worked for me. Years ago.”
Clara stared at the floor.
“Good man,” Brennan added.
She tasted blood where she had bitten the inside of her cheek.
After he left, Raphael asked, “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a good man?”
“My father was.”
The answer hung between them.
Raphael’s expression changed.
Clara picked up her bucket.
That night, on the third bus home, she checked her bag.
The rusted tin box was still there.
Inside it lay her father’s employee badge, three folded shipping receipts, and a memory she had spent eight years trying to survive.
May you like
At her building, a black sedan idled across the street.
When she stopped walking, its headlights came on.
