The invoice from Gable Construction was typed on heavy cream paper, but the blue ink on the signature line was still damp enough to smudge when my thumb brushed the corner. Donald Gable sat across the walnut table, his third cup of black coffee cooling in a porcelain cup that cost more than my monthly car payment. The smell of expensive wood wax in the manor boardroom was thick, mixed with the faint, metallic scent of the heating vents.
“It was an emergency line repair in the North Ridge laundry room,” Donald said, wiping his brow with a monogrammed linen handkerchief. “You cannot wait for corporate approval when four hundred gallons of greywater are backing up into the guest suites.”
I leaned over the spreadsheet, my finger stopping on the line item for twelve thousand dollars. The date on the work order was October fourth, a Tuesday when the North Ridge facility had been closed for scheduled boiler maintenance.
