Carl said nothing.
“My initials.”
There was a murmur.
“Not because of your numbers. Your region’s on-time delivery rate is the lowest of the five. It has been for three years. Your team’s quarterly reports, the good ones, the ones with the charts, have been written since January by a woman named Sheila Monroe.”
Sheila’s hand went to her mouth.
“He told me he wrote them,” she said, to nobody.
“I signed every promotion,” David said, “because you were married to somebody I would do anything for.”
He did not look at Carl when he said it.
He looked at me.
“Laura,” he said gently. “Would you stand up, please?”
I didn’t want to.
Every cell in my body wanted to stay behind that fern with my cold glass.
But I put the glass down and pushed back my chair.
My legs held, barely.
A hundred and twenty heads turned.
