I pull out my gun.
The smile dies so quickly it almost amuses me.
“Oh my God.”
“Quiet,” I say.
He goes quiet.
I step closer, just enough that he has to tip his head back to keep looking at me.
“You are going to pay Izzy Hartwell what you owe her.”
Donald blinks.
“What?”
“The overtime you stole,” I say, my voice even. “You are going to pay it. Tonight.”
His mouth opens and closes. He is trying to decide whether lying or pleading will serve him better. He settles, poorly, on confusion.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I pull the hammer back with my thumb.
The click is small.
His knees almost give out.
“Yes,” he says quickly. “Okay. Okay. I know what you mean.”
“Good.”
He is sweating now. Beads of it at his temples, upper lip trembling, eyes locked on the gun like it contains the answer to every bad choice he has ever made.
“You are also going to pay her a bonus,” I continue.
“A bonus?”
“For the inconvenience.”
He swallows so hard I can see it.
“How much?”
I reach into my inside pocket with my free hand, pull out a folded stack of bills—around five thousand dollars—and shove it into his chest. He fumbles automatically and nearly drops it before clutching it with both hands.
“This much,” I say. “From me. You will tell her it is back pay and hazard compensation.”
Donald stares at the money like it might bite him.
His shocked eyes looks up at me.
Then, back at the gun.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
