"Of course he knew," Sterling said quietly, shutting his folder. "The emergency regulatory notice was delivered to his personal email yesterday evening. He was on the window sill because he had nothing left to lose. But then you came in and demanded to take it off his hands." Sterling shook his head, a dry, cynical sound escaping his lips. "He tried to tell you, didn't he? He asked you if you were absolutely sure you wanted to do this, and you told him to shut up and sign."
Laura fell back onto the leather sofa, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with deep, ragged sobs.
Bob stood frozen, his eyes darting toward the window as if he were now the one considering the jump.
But the federal marshals stepped forward, their handcuffs reflecting the sterile office lights. "Bob," the marshal said, his voice cold. "Hands behind your back."
The town of Blackwood was situated seventy miles north of the city: a quiet, sleepy coastal village where the only industry was the repair of wooden fishing boats and the seasonal tourist trade. It was a place where nobody cared about corporate IPOs, stock options, or eighty-million-dollar defaults.
In a small, weathered shipyard at the edge of the harbor, the sound of rhythmic sanding echoed through the afternoon air. Andre stood beside the hull of an old 30-foot trawler, his face smudged with sawdust and grease. He wore a simple, faded blue work shirt and heavy canvas trousers. His hands, which had once signed multimillion-dollar contracts, were now covered in fresh calluses and the faint, dark stains of marine varnish.
He wiped his brow with the back of his arm and took a deep breath of the salty, cold sea air. For three months, he had lived in a small, single-room cottage overlooking the harbor. He had no car, no expensive suits, and no luxury penthouse. But when he went to sleep at night, the silence was absolute: there were no ringing phones, no frantic emails from board members, and no crushing guilt.
The local shipyard owner, an elderly man named George, walked over carrying two cups of steaming coffee in paper cups. "You're working too hard, Andre," George said, handing him a cup. "The owner of that trawler didn't expect it to be finished until next month."
"I like the work, George," Andre said, taking a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. "It keeps the hands busy."
George leaned against the wooden hull, looking out at the calm, gray water of the bay. "You know, when you first showed up here looking for a job as a mechanic, I thought you were some city guy running away from a bad marriage or a tax bill. You didn't look like the type who knew how to rebuild an engine."
"I used to haul bricks," Andre said softly, "before I had an office. A man doesn't forget how to use his hands just because he bought a desk."