“You’ve held me back for eight years, Daniel. My brothers are running regional infrastructure acquisitions. My father is an executive director. And you… you’re still scrubbing pipes in basements. Sign the waiver, take your truck, and get out of our lives.”
I didn’t answer her with words.
I tucked the divorce folder under my arm, turned on the heel of my work boots, and walked out through the shattered doorway into the freezing Ohio night.
Behind me, another burst of raucous laughter echoed from the dining room, but as I reached the bottom step, the sound died away into the winter wind.
I climbed into the cab of the F-250.
Sophie was curled in the passenger seat beneath my Carhartt coat, the heater blowing warm air over her freezing hands. She looked at the manila folder in my lap, tears welling in her hazel eyes:
“Dad… did she… did Claire sign the papers?”
I reached out with my right hand, gently brushing a frozen tear from her cheek, my voice steady as an anvil:
“Yes, Sophie. She did.”
“Where are we going, Dad? We can’t go back to the house.”
“We’re going to the office, sweetheart,” I said softly, shifting the heavy transmission into drive:
“**It’s time to balance the books.**”
***
23:15 EST.
The downtown skyline of Cincinnati rose against the black, snow-filled sky like a cluster of frosted glass towers.
While the rest of the city was dark, celebrating Christmas Eve with family dinners and quiet carols, the entire twenty-second floor of the Scripps Center on Walnut Street blazed with brilliant, white halogen illumination.
On the frosted glass double doors facing the private executive elevator bay, inlaid in solid brushed titanium, were the words:
`WHITAKER CONSTRUCTION & INFRASTRUCTURE HOLDINGS LLC`
`OFFICE OF THE FOUNDER & CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER`
