almost hurt.
But I thought about Gordon. Fired after twenty-two years in accounting because he refused to sign off on a lie.
I thought about my employees at Buckeye. Eleven people. Delivery drivers. Warehouse guys. Our receptionist, Tonya, a single mom with twins. Russell had found records showing that after I went to
prison, Buckeye had started missing payroll. Paychecks bounced. People quit. The company sank into debt while Trevor’s consulting firm got richer.
And I thought about my house. The red front door. My furniture. My clothes. My father’s photograph, which had been on the mantel above the fireplace when the police came. A picture of him on his fishing boat, laughing, with a fish the size of a loaf of bread.
I didn’t know if it was still there.
“I won’t take money in exchange for silence,” I said finally. “If they want to talk about restitution, real
