PART 2 — THE MONEY BURIED BENEATH THE MARBLE FLOORS
“No one here is in trouble because they told the truth.”
David Mercer said it gently to Lily.
Emily watched him.
People with money often said things like that because consequences rarely arrived at their own doors.
They arrived at hers.
They came in red envelopes marked FINAL NOTICE.
They appeared as medication she had to cut in half.
They sounded like Lily asking why milk cost too much this week.
Emily tightened her grip on the janitorial cart.
“With respect, Mr. Mercer, you don’t work for Northstar.”
David rose from his crouch.
“No.”
His eyes dropped to the contractor badge clipped to Emily’s sweater.
“Apparently that’s part of the problem.”
Lily tugged Emily’s sleeve.
“Mommy, can I have some cake?”
Emily’s cheeks burned.
Before she could answer, David looked toward the abandoned dessert table.
“That cake belongs to Mercer Dynamics.”
Emily stiffened.
“I told you we weren’t—”
“And I am Mercer Dynamics.”
His mouth shifted slightly.
“I officially authorize the destruction of one slice.”
Lily looked at Emily.
“Can I destroy chocolate?”
Despite everything, Emily nearly laughed.
David looked at her.
“Please.”
That one word changed the offer.
Not Take it because you’re poor.
Not I’m saving you.
Simply please.
Emily nodded.
“One piece.”
Lily hurried toward the table.
“Small.”
Lily immediately selected a piece roughly the size of Wyoming.
“Lily.”
David looked away, clearly hiding a smile.
Emily cut the slice in half.
While Lily ate at the marble bench, David opened the leather portfolio again.
The tiredness that had been on his face when he entered the building had disappeared.
He flipped through a twenty-page payment schedule.
Emily noticed numbers highlighted in yellow.
Vendor names.
Dates.
Approval codes.
Then he found Northstar.
His finger stopped.
“December fourth.”
“What?”
“Mercer sent Northstar thirty-four thousand four hundred dollars in supplemental retention payments for forty-three overnight facilities employees assigned to our Denver properties.”
Emily stared.
“Forty-three?”
“Yes.”
“There’s only thirty-something.”
“Forty-three employee IDs were submitted.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Submitted by who?”
“Northstar.”
He turned the page toward her.
Each worker was identified only by internal code.
David pointed.
“Eight hundred dollars each.”
Emily stared at the line.
Eight hundred dollars.
Her gas bill was $163 overdue.
Lily’s inhaler was $91 after insurance.
Her checking account held forty-three cents.
She heard herself say:
“I know what eight hundred dollars looks like.”
David’s eyes rose.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
She expected offense.
Instead, he slowly closed the portfolio.
“You’re right.”
Emily blinked.
“My problem tonight is that I thought I knew what our contractors were being paid.”
He glanced toward Lily.
“Apparently I don’t.”
He took out his phone.
Emily immediately became nervous.
“Who are you calling?”
“Our general counsel.”
“At eleven on Christmas Eve?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll answer?”
David looked almost grimly amused.
“She bills us enough.”
Emily folded her arms.
“This could get people fired.”
“It might.”
“I meant us.”
His face hardened.
“Nobody is being fired for telling me that money I authorized for workers disappeared.”
Emily wished she believed powerful men when they made promises.
Experience had taught her to wait until after the promise became inconvenient.
David made the call.
A sleepy woman’s voice answered after three rings.
“David?”
“Sorry, Maya.”
“You only call me on Christmas Eve when somebody has committed a crime or you have decided to buy a company.”
“Possibly the first.”
That woke her.
David moved a few feet away.
Emily did not deliberately listen.
The lobby made privacy impossible.
“Northstar facilities contract,” David said. “December retention payment. I have a worker in front of me saying nobody received it.”
Pause.
“No, I don’t want you contacting Northstar yet.”
Another pause.
“Yes. Preserve everything.”
He looked toward Emily.
“Payroll pass-through schedules too.”
Then:
“And Maya?”
He became very still.
“Check the living-wage rider.”
Emily had never heard that phrase either.
He ended the call.
“What is a living-wage rider?”
David looked at her.
“How much are you paid?”
Emily hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because Mercer Dynamics requires overnight facilities workers on our Denver contracts to receive a minimum hourly rate.”
“How much?”
He did not answer immediately.
Emily’s unease deepened.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Twenty-three fifty.”
She thought she had misheard him.
“What?”
“Before shift differential.”
She stared.
“My base pay is fifteen sixty.”
David did not move.
“Night differential?”
“Sixty-five cents.”
His jaw tightened.
The lobby Christmas music continued.
A soft piano version of Silent Night.
Emily almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
She worked forty-two to fifty hours most weeks.
Two years.
Seven dollars an hour.
More.
Hundreds of hours.
Thousands of dollars.
“No,” she whispered.
David looked at the invoice again.
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