Page 17 of By the Letter

Roman

GoldMed wasn’t the onlypot I had my hand in, and as a result, my inbox held a dizzying amount of messages. My assistant sorted through my emails, starring the ones of highest priority. I clicked on an email sent last night from Shira. She’d replied to my questions about a manufacturer Frank had contracted six years ago.

She was certainly more talkative through email, but I still had several more questions and didn’t have time to send them and wait for a response. Pushing back from my desk, I headed toward her office. Terry looked up from her computer as I approached.

“Hey, Terry.”

“Roman.” Her greeting was warm but wary. I hadn’t quite won her over. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Don’t think so. I need to talk to the boss.” I jerked my thumb toward the door. “Is Shira available?”

Terry stacked her hands over a pile of papers, the corners of her eyes pinched behind gold-framed glasses. “She’s not in her office.”

“Really? Hmmm. It seems that’s been happening a lot lately.”

Not only had she been late for several meetings the last couple weeks, yesterday, I’d gone to speak with her and found her sound asleep at her desk. I’d left her there. If I’d woken her, I would’ve unloaded about how little she cared for this company. Frank had left GoldMed in her hands, and she repaid him by making a mockery of her position. It pissed me off. I was tired too, dammit, but I couldn’t fathom what it would take for me to nap at work.

Terry’s shoulders bunched, and she raised her chin. Despite everything, she was loyal to Shira Goldman. It bewildered me. She’d been Frank’s right-hand woman and, presumably, just as loyal to him. She had to see or know something I didn’t. I wished like hell someone would enlighten me.

“She’s speaking with Francesa. I’m sure Shira will be back any minute. If you’d like to wait—”

“No, that’s all right.” I was already turning toward Francesca’s office. “I’ll find her. Thanks, Terry. And don’t forget to send me the name of the ramen place. I’m jonesing for some noodles.”

She sniffed, muttering as I walked away, “We’ll see about that.”

Francesca occupied the far corner of the floor. She was rarely in the building, and I couldn’t say I’d ever ventured into her office. Her door was half open. Francesca was behind her desk, a wicked smirk on her painted red lips, while Shira had her back to me, both hands fisted at her sides.

“You can’t do that again,” Shira uttered.

Francesca lifted a shoulder. “Technically, it’s my house. It isn’t like I broke in.”

Shira shook her head. “It isn’t your house. It’s mine—”

“Are you saying I can’t come back to my father’s home? My only connection to him, and you’re taking that from me too? Haven’t you done enough?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I just need you to—”

“I don’t understand how you can be so cruel, Shira. I bet my father is rolling over in his grave right now.”

Shira’s shoulders bunched around her ears. “I don’t think I’m being cruel. I’m sorry if you feel that way, but the things you took weren’t for you. They were mine—”

Francesca had mentioned Shira not allowing her to have her father’s things, but given the drama she liked to create, I hadn’t truly believed her. There was no denying it now. Shira Goldman might’ve looked like a meek little mouse, but underneath her false timidity was a greedy snake.

I cleared my throat, and Shira whirled around. For a flash, I thought I saw Francesca’s lips turn into a grin then her face crumpled.

“Oh, Roman. I didn’t see you there,” Francesca wobbled, jutting her bottom lip out. “I’m sorry, my former stepmother and I were having a personal conversation. We should have saved that for after work hours.”

“It sounds like you two have a few things to work out.” I shot a pointed look at Shira then addressed Francesca. “Maybe a third party would help. I don’t know any inheritance lawyers, but I’m sure the firm I use could recommend one.”

Shira’s cheeks flamed bright red. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve already worked it out.” Then she marched past me, careful not to brush me.

I trailed her, incensed on Francesca’s behalf. Determined to rein it in, I ground my molars into dust to stop the insults on the tip of my tongue from flying out.

Shira glanced back at me over her shoulder. “I don’t know what you heard, but I—”

“I heard enough.”

Her fists tightened, and she muttered, “No one will let me finish a flipping sentence. I might as well not even speak.”

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