Spencer shut the real estate report with a firm, quiet snap of paper.

“I don’t account for every twenty minutes of my afternoon when I’m running a forty-million-dollar closing, Vivian.

The car service got you home safely.”

“The car service was forty minutes late because nobody gave the dispatcher the right wing number,” I said.

He picked up his fountain pen and drew a double line in the right margin of his report.

“Then we’ll replace the car service before your next appointment.”

By eleven thirty, sunlight was pouring through the tall Fifth Avenue windows of the Aldridge Luxe boardroom.

Rosalind sat at the head of the polished mahogany table, her manicured hands resting beside a thick leather audit binder.

Six senior board members lined the left side, and Spencer sat across from me with his notebook squared neatly to the wood grain.

“We have three unresolved financial discrepancies in the charitable foundation audit,” Rosalind said, in the clipped, aristocratic cadence that permitted no questions.

She reached down and rapped her index fingernail on the mahogany three times, a sharp, rhythmic sound that made the nearest accountant straighten in his chair.

“The foundation line items show forty-two thousand dollars in unexplained transfers to regional health suppliers,” Rosalind said.

“To be specific, we’re missing six itemized receipts for specialized fertility injections billed to the executive health fund in April and June.”

“Those were filed through the personal insurance portal,” I said.