Chapter 8 - The Audit of the Past
By December, the first winter snow had draped Columbus in a clean, blinding white blanket that covered every ugly scar left by the fire.
The corporate transition was complete. Calloway Financial Consulting was thriving, having retained our core corporate clients while dropping the toxic, insolvent accounts Frank had accumulated through shady handshake deals.
Marcus and I sat in our favorite booth at a downtown bistro, celebrating my first official month as sole CEO with a bottle of sparkling cider and plates of warm artisanal sourdough.
"So," Marcus said, swirling his glass, watching me across the candlelit table. "Word on the street is that Frank has a job folding sweaters at a JC Penney in Dayton, and Diane is crashing on a college roommate’s couch in Chicago."
"Karma isn't a feeling, Marcus. It’s just math," I replied, cutting a slice of bread. "Debit what you take, credit what you give. Eventually, the balance sheet always has to equal zero."
"And how does your balance sheet look today?" he asked softly, his eyes searching mine with genuine warmth.
I paused, looking down at my left ankle. The bone still ached when the weather turned cold—a permanent physical reminder of the night I fell fourteen feet into frozen grass.
"It looks solvent," I said, smiling. "For the first time in my life, I don't owe anyone an explanation for existing."
Later that evening, back at my new apartment—a sunlit loft downtown with exposed brick walls and massive arched windows overlooking the frozen river—I opened the bottom drawer of my desk.
Inside sat a single, singed photograph salvaged by the fire investigators from my old bedroom.
It was a picture of me at eight years old, standing awkwardly in front of the Elm Street porch, holding a cheap plastic trophy from a school science fair. Miriam and Frank were standing in the background, out of focus, looking past me toward something happening down the street.
I picked up the photograph, looked at the little girl trapped in the margins of her own family portrait, and felt a strange, profound sense of gratitude toward the fire.
May you like
Without it, I might have spent another thirty years trying to win the approval of people who considered me disposable.
I tossed the singed photograph into the recycling bin, locked my desk drawer, and walked over to the window to watch the snow fall over the city lights.
