I marched up the stairs to my bedroom. I showered, the water scalding hot, scrubbing my skin as if I could wash the fog away. I put on black slacks and a gray silk blouse, the one Marco always said made me look “executive.” I pulled my damp hair back into a knot at the nape of my neck.
Once dressed, I felt closer to the woman I used to be. The clothes weren’t just clothes—they were armor. And I’d need them to face Arthur.
At three o’clock, the doorbell rang. I’d positioned myself in the living room—sitting, composed, with a cup of tea cooling on the side table. I counted to five before rising to answer.
Arthur Vance stood on my doorstep, dressed in a suit, carrying a bouquet of white lilies in one arm and a covered casserole dish in the other. Behind him, parked at the curb, was his Mercedes.
“Theresa,” he said, his voice warm. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Arthur.” I stepped back to let him in. “Thank you for coming.”
He handed me the lilies, which I accepted awkwardly. “Helen chose these. She wanted to come herself, but she has that charity luncheon.”
Of course she did. “Please thank her for me.”
I led him to the living room. I’d spent fifteen minutes tidying—picking up toys, straightening cushions, creating the illusion of control. The casserole sat on the coffee table between us like a gauntlet beside the pot of tea.
“Please sit,” I said, gesturing to the armchair. “I made some tea. Would you like some?”
Arthur sat, adjusting his pant legs. “No, thank you,” he said. “How are the children?”
“They’re coping.” I didn’t mention they were at the park with Michael and Shelly. Let him think I had everything under control.
“Good, good.” He nodded sagely. “Children are remarkably resilient.”
I said nothing, just waited. Arthur hadn’t driven across town with a casserole to discuss child psychology.
“First, let me say again how deeply sorry I am.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands. “Marco was... a giant. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Thank you,” I said, the words worn smooth from repetition. “The eulogy was beautiful,” I added, unable to keep a slight edge from my voice. “Very... heartfelt.”
If Arthur caught the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. “I wanted to honor him properly. Marco deserved that.”
A beat of silence. Then Arthur reached into his briefcase. “I’ve brought some papers. Just routine matters. Payroll approvals, that sort of thing.”
He handed me a small stack of documents. I glanced at them. Standard administrative forms that could have been handled by a courier. This wasn’t why he’d come.
“And how are you, Theresa?Really?” His voice softened to a confidential murmur.
I looked up from the papers, meeting his eyes. “How do you think I am, Arthur?”
He had the grace to look abashed. “Of course. A stupid question.” He cleared his throat, his professional mask sliding back into place. “The reason I wanted to speak with you in person is... well, the board is naturally concerned about the leadership situation at CarideoTech.”
And there it was. The shark, circling.
“Is that so?” My voice was flat.
“Yes. With Marco’s... passing... there’s a great deal of uncertainty. Our investors are looking for stability, and some aregetting nervous.” He paused, letting that sink in. “We’ve already had some troubling developments.”
“What kind of developments?”
“Leonard Ashley has pulled his commitment. All of it.”
Leonard Ashley—the investor we had charmed in Aspen, the one who’d promised thirty million for the glucose monitoring technology. The meeting that was supposed to happen the Tuesday after Marco died.
“When?” I managed.
“The day after the funeral.” Arthur’s face was serious. “He called personally. You were right. He said he’d invested in Marco’s vision, not the company. Without Marco...” He spread his hands. “We’ve lost thirty million in potential funding, Theresa. The FDA submission timeline is in jeopardy.”
