CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
That night, I crashed like Sleeping Beauty on sedatives. Someone must have been watching over me. The adjoining room remained empty, and I awoke to my alarm instead of a slamming door.
I took a quick shower, cut short by my cell phone ringing. I couldn’t get to it in time and toweled off before retrieving the message from Leonard Hirschbeck. “Please give me a call.”
I combed my hair, put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, dabbed makeup on my bruise (a lovely mottled brown), and then called Tina’s guidance counselor, Frank Powell. He was in the weeds—work had backed up and he had a full day of meetings. But he promised to be available at four.
Then I called Hirschbeck. Sounding resigned, he said, “The company approved the audit the day after we spoke. We paid extra for the auditors to work through the weekend.”
“Considering someone’s life is at stake, that seems fair,” I said.
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