“I’m not trying to prove anything to them, Elena,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I’m proving it to myself.”
“Well, yourself is going to burn out if you don’t take a weekend off. Go to Door County. Rent a cabin. Turn your phone off.”
“I don’t turn my phone off.”
“That’s an order from the audit committee, Ms. CEO. Log out.”
I laughed, closed my laptop, and realized she was right. For three years, my life had been governed by court dates, depositions, forensic ledgers, and the hum of fluorescent lights.
That weekend, I didn’t go to Door County. Instead, I drove out to a quiet state park thirty miles west of the city. I walked through a forest of towering maples and oaks, their leaves turning a brilliant riot of gold and crimson in the October air.
Raymond came with me. We didn’t talk about court cases, embezzlement, or corporate governance. We walked side by side down a dirt trail, kicking up dry leaves and stopping occasionally to watch a red-tailed hawk circle lazily over the canopy.
At noon, we sat on a fallen log and ate turkey sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.
“You’re quiet today,” Raymond said, handing me an apple.
“Just thinking,” I said, biting into the crisp fruit. “About my father. He used to bring me out here when I was ten. I remember crying because I scraped my knee on a rock, and he told me that skin heals stronger at the site of the break.”
Raymond looked at my knee, then up at my face. “He wasn’t wrong.”
“No,” I agreed, looking out through the golden trees. “He wasn’t.”
The Final Ledger
In the third autumn after the trial, a brief, unassuming envelope arrived at my office. It wasn’t from federal prison this time. It was from the state parole board.
