Chapter 1 - The Man Behind the Black Curtains
The assistant before me left Arthur Cornero’s office crying so hard she missed the elevator button twice.
I watched the silver doors swallow her, then looked at Vincent Bell.
“Should I ask what happened?”
“No.”
“That bad?”
Vincent gave me the expression of a man who had been answering that question for years.
“Worse if you ask.”
That should have been enough to make a sensible woman leave.
Unfortunately, sensible women usually had savings accounts.
I had thirty-eight dollars, rent due in three days, and an electric company that had recently developed a passionate interest in my unpaid balance.
So when Vincent told me Arthur Cornero paid forty dollars an hour with double overtime, I mentally decided I could tolerate almost anything short of human sacrifice.
Vincent opened the mahogany doors.
The office was enormous.
And dark.
Heavy curtains covered windows that should have displayed half of Chicago. Walnut shelves lined the walls. Three stacks of documents sat perfectly squared on an oak desk.
Behind it sat Arthur Cornero.
Thirty-six years old.
Dark hair.
Strong jaw.
Black suit.
He looked younger than every rumor I had heard about him and considerably more dangerous.
Not because he moved.
Because he didn’t.
“Close the door, Miss Hayes.”
I stopped.
Vincent was still holding the handle.
Arthur hadn’t turned his head.
“How did you know it was me?”
His face remained expressionless.
“Your shoes.”
I looked down at my cheap pumps.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Left heel squeaks every fourth step.”
Vincent quietly closed the door behind me.
Arthur continued.
“You stopped six feet from the desk.”
I said nothing.
“You’re staring.”
That irritated me.
“You can’t know that.”
“People change their breathing when they stare.”
I folded my arms.
His mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
“Now you’re annoyed.”
“Is this the interview?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“An opportunity for you to leave before wasting my time.”
I stared at him for another second.
Then I walked to the curtains.
Arthur’s head turned immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out why your office looks like a funeral home.”
Vincent coughed behind me.
Arthur said, “Leave the curtains.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Silence.
Vincent looked as if he had just witnessed somebody kick a sleeping bear.
Arthur leaned back.
“My eyes are sensitive to light even though I cannot see.”
That stopped me.
“Then we leave the curtains.”
I returned to the desk.
“No dramatic opening.”
“No.”
“No pity.”
“Also no.”
He tilted his head.
Interesting.
That small movement was the first crack in the famous Arthur Cornero armor.
He slid a file toward me.
“Read.”
I sat.
“Revenue report?”
“Every number.”
“You seriously want me to read an entire spreadsheet aloud?”
“Yes.”
“That might explain the four assistants.”
Vincent suddenly became fascinated by the wall.
Arthur said, “Start.”
So I started.
At first, I thought it was ridiculous.
Then I understood.
Arthur wasn’t simply listening.
He was building the document in his head.
Every number.
Every date.
Every account.
Every percentage.
Whenever I paused, he supplied the previous figure from memory.
When I accidentally said seventy-eight thousand instead of eighty-seven thousand, he corrected me instantly.
An hour passed.
Then two.
At 6:14 p.m., I reached the bottom of another page.
“Operating transfer, Cornero Logistics Northeast, two hundred eighteen thousand—”
“Stop.”
I stopped.
Arthur leaned forward.
“Repeat that.”
“Two hundred eighteen thousand.”
“Date?”
“November fourteenth.”
His fingers tapped once on the desk.
“Continue.”
I read the next amount.
Then another.
At seven, Vincent left to handle a security call.
At seven-ten, I realized Arthur hadn’t touched the coffee beside him.
“Do you take sugar?”
The silence that followed suggested nobody had asked Arthur Cornero that question in approximately a decade.
“No.”
“Milk?”
“No.”
“Do you actually like coffee?”
Another pause.
“No.”
I laughed.
“You’ve been drinking something you hate because people keep putting it on your desk?”
“It discourages conversation.”
“Clearly ineffective.”
For the first time, Arthur smiled.
Barely.
But I saw it.
That became my first victory.
The next morning, he remembered the exact time I arrived.
The morning after that, he knew I had changed shoes.
By Friday, he could recognize the difference between my footsteps and Vincent’s from twenty feet away.
And I discovered something about Arthur Cornero nobody had bothered telling me.
He wasn’t cruel.
He was precise.
People feared precision because precision exposed mistakes.
He remembered promises.
Numbers.
Voices.
Lies.
Especially lies.
During my second week, I began reorganizing his meeting notes verbally rather than physically.
During my third, Arthur started asking my opinion.
Not often.
Never nicely.
But he asked.
“Hayes.”
“Yes?”
“Does the Vescari proposal make sense?”
“No.”
Vincent looked up sharply.
Arthur said, “Why?”
“They’re projecting thirteen percent growth while reducing distribution costs by almost twenty percent.”
“That is possible.”
“Sure. And I could marry a prince by Thursday.”
Arthur’s mouth twitched.
I pointed to the document.
“They’ve hidden something.”
He became still.
That stillness was different.
“Read the supporting numbers.”
I did.
Halfway through the file, a folded piece of paper slipped onto the floor.
I bent down.
“What fell?” Arthur asked.
“A note.”
Vincent entered just as I unfolded it.
Three columns of handwritten numbers.
No names.
No explanation.
But I recognized two figures immediately.
They appeared in reports I had read to Arthur during my first week.
Except the numbers on the note were smaller.
Much smaller.
My stomach tightened.
Arthur heard the change in my breathing.
“What is it?”
I looked at Vincent.
Then back at Arthur.
“There are account numbers here.”
Arthur said nothing.
“And transfer amounts.”
“Read them.”
I did.
After the fourth number, Arthur’s face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He finished the fifth number before I could.
Vincent stepped closer.
“Arthur?”
Arthur ignored him.
“Norah. Read the date beside the second transfer.”
“March seventeenth.”
His fingers curled around the edge of his desk.
“That transfer was reported to me as four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
I looked down.
The handwritten number said three hundred and sixty thousand.
A difference of one hundred twenty thousand dollars.
I checked another.
Then another.
My pulse quickened.
“Arthur…”
“How many?”
“Five transfers.”
“Difference?”
I grabbed a calculator.
The room went quiet except for the tapping of buttons.
When the total appeared, my mouth went dry.
“Six hundred forty thousand dollars.”
Vincent swore under his breath.
Arthur remained perfectly still.
Then he asked the question that changed everything.
“Whose handwriting?”
I turned the note over.
There was something faintly embossed on the back.
Two initials.
V.B.
I slowly looked toward Vincent Bell.
May you like
And Arthur, who couldn’t see either of us, quietly said:
“Why did you stop breathing, Norah?”
