Chapter 8: Terms
Grant's attorney was a man named Hollis Pryce, and he had a reputation for finding the exit before the building came down.
He called Dana directly, not Sloane, which told her something about how he had assessed the situation.
He was not trying to negotiate from strength.
He was trying to negotiate at all.
Dana relayed the offer in Sloane's office that afternoon.
"Full restitution of the two point three million within ninety days.
Acknowledgment in writing that the transfer contract was invalid.
Grant resigns from any formal or informal role connected to the hotel and agrees to a permanent non-disparagement clause." Dana paused.
"In exchange, you agree not to pursue additional civil claims beyond what the DA's office is already handling."
"He's asking me to let the criminal process run but not add to it," Sloane said.
"Correct."
"And the offshore account?
The additional eight hundred thousand?"
"He didn't mention it."
"Because he's hoping I don't know about it yet."
Dana said nothing.
That was confirmation enough.
Sloane leaned back in her chair.
The afternoon light was coming through the window at a low angle, cutting across the desk.
She had been in this office for two years and she had never noticed how the light moved in the late afternoon.
"Tell Hollis Pryce that I appreciate the offer," she said.
"And that the answer is no."
"He'll push back."
"He can push.
The DA has the server records.
The offshore account is going to come out in the formal discovery regardless of what I agree to.
Grant's attorney knows that.
This offer is about limiting the civil exposure, not the criminal one." She picked up a pen.
"I'm not limiting anything."
Dana nodded.
"I'll call him."
"One more thing," Sloane said.
"Tell him that if Grant wants to demonstrate genuine cooperation, he can start by giving the DA's office a complete accounting of the offshore account voluntarily, before they find it themselves.
That's the only gesture I'd consider meaningful."
Dana wrote it down.
She stood to leave.
"Dana," Sloane said.
She turned.
"You've been here since seven yesterday morning," Sloane said.
"Go home tonight.
Whatever comes next can start tomorrow."
Dana looked at her for a moment.
"Are you going home?"
Sloane looked at the desk.
At the audit summaries, the board notes, Carrie Wald's article printed and annotated in the margins.
"Soon," she said.
Dana left.
Sloane sat alone in the office until the light through the window went orange and then grey.
She thought about the version of yesterday she had imagined — the ribbon, the scissors, the speech she had written and rewritten, the moment she had planned to stand in the lobby of the hotel she had built and feel, for once, that something was finished and good.
She had not given that speech.
But she was still here.
The hotel was still hers.
The lobby lights were still the color she had chosen.
She picked up her phone and called her mother.
"I saw the article," her mother said, before Sloane could speak.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm alright," Sloane said.
"I wanted to tell you myself, but it moved fast."
"The roof," her mother said.
"Sloane, I never wanted you to—"
"It's handled," Sloane said.
"It was my decision and I've corrected it.
Don't think about it again."
A pause.
"He was never right for you."
"No," Sloane said.
"He wasn't."
"Come for dinner this weekend.
I'll make the soup you like."
Sloane smiled.
It was the first time she had smiled since walking into the lobby the previous morning.
"I'll be there Saturday."
She ended the call and sat for another minute.
Then she turned off the desk lamp, locked the office door, and walked to the elevator.
The lobby was quiet.
The last of the events staff had gone home.
The champagne flutes had been cleared.
The floors were clean.
The lights were still on — warm, gold, exactly right.
May you like
She walked to the front doors and stood there for a moment, looking at the room.
Then she pushed through the doors and went out into the evening.
