No Number Left to Offer

I didn't expect Weston Harrowgate to know where I lived. I definitely didn't expect him on my porch at eight in the evening, alone, no driver of his own waiting at the curb.

"Mr. Thorn," he said. Formal, for the first time in thirty years of knowing my name.

"Mr. Harrowgate."

"Can I come in?"

I didn't move from the doorway. "Say what you came to say."

He exhaled, glanced at the street like he was checking for witnesses. "There's a rumor going around that you kept something. From the warehouse. Years back."

"Is that a question?"

"I'll double your severance. I'll write you a reference that gets you driving for anyone in this city. Whatever this is — old paperwork, an old grudge — it can go away tonight."

"You fired me for being a line item," I said. "Now I'm worth double severance and a favor. Funny how fast a man's value changes."

His jaw tightened. "This isn't a game, Thorn. Whatever you think you know about my grandfather—"

"I don't think anything," I said. "I know."

For the first time, I saw something crack in him — not guilt, not yet. Fear, still young and unpracticed on his face.

"Name a number," he said.

"There isn't one."

"Everyone has a number."

"I had one for thirty years," I said. "It was my job. That's what it cost me to stay quiet. You already took that away. There's nothing left for you to buy."

He stood there a moment longer, and I almost felt sorry for him — almost, the way you feel sorry for someone standing in a house about to catch fire, still holding a match.

"Go home, Mr. Harrowgate," I said, and started to close the door.

"Whatever you sent," he said quickly, "wherever it went — tell me now, and I can still control this."

I paused, half in shadow. "It already left my hands three days ago."

I shut the door before I could see his face change.