“Vance Fine Furniture does not owe you another dime,” I said.
“You will eventually regret your judgment,” she said.
She turned away without picking up the money, her left boot slipping slightly on the slick asphalt as she began to walk west toward the Chicago River.
“You worked at Vance for seven years, Lucy. You knew the accounting systems better than anyone.”
“I worked those years because I cared about the company, Alexander.”
“The forensic accountant showed me the digital authorizations. Your password was used to approve the wood shipment to the Ontario docks. The ninety thousand dollars was routed to a shell company.”
“I told you then, and I will tell you now, I never saw that wood, and I never saw that money,” she said.
