“Enough, Victor.”
He looked older than in the photograph, but his eyes were still calculating.
“We came for the ledger, not a speech.”
Victor held out his hand.
I placed the wooden box on the desk.
He opened it and removed the red ledger.
Harold took it from him.
He flipped through several pages.
“This is a copy.”
Victor’s expression hardened.
“Where is the original?”
“Somewhere you can’t reach.”
His eyes moved toward Clara.
“You should have stayed in Oregon.”
“And you should have chosen a better accountant,” she replied.
Harold slammed the ledger onto the desk.
“This is not a joke.”
“No,” I said. “It stopped being a joke when you stole from my husband.”
“I kept his farm alive.”
“You drained it.”
“I redirected capital.”
“You stole.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Be careful with that word.”
“Why? Does the truth make you uncomfortable?”
He smiled again, but anger showed beneath it.
