Chapter 31
Harry's hands trembled as he pulled out his private phone. Sweat had soaked through his expensive shirt despite the air-conditioning. He loosened his tie with jerky movements, the silk suddenly feeling like a noose around his neck.
The office felt claustrophobic. He yanked at the blinds, then immediately closed them again. Paced to the window. Back to his desk. The bay view, which usually calmed him, offered no comfort.
His finger slipped twice before successfully hitting the contact. The call connected on the second ring.
"We have a problem." His voice came out higher than intended.
"What kind of problem?" The voice on the other end was calm and measured, which somehow made it more terrifying than anger.
Harry wiped his palm on his pants before gripping the phone tighter. "Legal Aid attorney. Just left my office."
Silence.
"She knows about the markups." Harry's throat felt dry. He grabbed his water bottle, hands shaking as he twisted the cap. "Had exact numbers from a couple of subcontractors."
"Name?"
"Sandra O'Neill. Attorney." Harry knocked over his pen holder while reaching for tissues to mop his forehead. Pens scattered across his desk, and he cursed under his breath. "She's not fishing around. She has specifics."
"What did you tell her?"
"Nothing. Project management bullshit." Harry's laugh came out as a nervous bark. "But she didn't buy it. Could see it on her face."
He stood abruptly and started pacing again with his phone pressed against his ear. "She said she'd be back for documentation and would call the main office. She's talked to contractors. What if—"
"Calm down."
But Harry couldn't calm down. His free hand was pulling at his hair, expensive styling gel making it stick up at odd angles. "This is exactly what Dad always warned about. Getting sloppy. Leaving traces."
Another pause. Harry could hear his own breathing, ragged and too fast.
"We handle it."
"How?" The word came out as a squeak. Harry cleared his throat and tried again. "How do we handle it?"
"Keep me informed if she comes back. We may need to apply pressure."
Harry stopped pacing. His reflection in the window showed a man who looked nothing like the confident businessman from an hour ago. Shirt wrinkled, hair disheveled, face pale and sweaty.
"What kind of pressure?"
The line went dead.
Harry stared at the silent phone, then hurled it onto his desk. It skittered across the surface, knocking over his coffee mug. Dark liquid spread across important documents, seeping into the expensive wood.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."
He grabbed more tissues, dabbing frantically at the spreading stain. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Sandra O'Neill's calm, professional smile flashed through his memory. The way she'd watched him squirm. The steel in her eyes.
Harry sank into his chair, expensive leather creaking under his weight. He buried his face in his hands, breathing in the scent of his own fear.
Sandra O'Neill might just become a very dangerous problem.