CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
That night, I crashed like Sleeping Beauty on sedatives. Someone must have been watching over me. The adjoining room remained empty, and I awoke to my alarm instead of a slamming door.
I took a quick shower, cut short by my cell phone ringing. I couldn’t get to it in time and toweled off before retrieving the message from Leonard Hirschbeck. “Please give me a call.”
I combed my hair, put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, dabbed makeup on my bruise (a lovely mottled brown), and then called Tina’s guidance counselor, Frank Powell. He was in the weeds—work had backed up and he had a full day of meetings. But he promised to be available at four.
Then I called Hirschbeck. Sounding resigned, he said, “The company approved the audit the day after we spoke. We paid extr
