Chapter 6 - The Turning Tide
While Marguerite’s world was collapsing under the weight of federal subpoenas and asset forfeitures, my small world was growing in ways I had never dared to dream.
The reputation I had built through my meticulous bookkeeping work had begun to spread beyond Presley’s circle of small-business owners. Clients who knew me saw the quiet, uncompromising precision with which I caught discrepancies, organized chaotic ledgers, and protected their bottom lines.
In early December, Presley walked up the stairs to my apartment, carrying two large red folders.
"Lana," Presley said, setting the folders on my kitchen table with a heavy thud. "I just had coffee with Frank Miller. He owns the industrial supply company over in Massillon."
I looked up from my laptop. "Frank Miller? He runs a forty-person operation."
"He does," Presley beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "And his chief financial administrator just retired after thirty years. Frank was complaining that he couldn't find anyone trustworthy enough to handle his accounts without paying a massive corporate firm in Cleveland."
She pushed the red folders toward me.
"I told him about you," Presley said softly. "I told him you uncovered a four-hundred-thousand-dollar corporate fraud scheme using nothing but secondhand invoices and sheer grit."
I opened the top folder. Inside was a formal contract offer for a full-time, retainer-based chief financial manager position, with an annual salary of seventy-five thousand dollars, full healthcare benefits for me and my three children, and flexible hours that would allow me to work from home when the kids were out of school.
I stared at the numbers on the paper.
Seventy-five thousand dollars.
It was more money than I had ever earned in my entire life. It meant no more skipping lunches. It meant no more panic when the winter heating bill arrived. It meant new coats for Fay, Della, and Beckett—coats bought brand-new from a store, with working zippers and deep, warm pockets that would never tear.
Tears filled my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks.
"Presley..." I whispered, my voice breaking. "I don't know how to thank you."
May you like
Presley stepped around the table, putting her strong, calloused hands on my shoulders and giving them a firm squeeze.
"You don't thank me, Lana," Presley said gently. "You earned this. You built this out of nothing while everybody else was trying to break you. Now sign the paper and take your kids out to buy some decent winter boots."
