“What are you thinking?”
I had been thinking about it for days.
Maybe years.
“I want to know how my company treats someone who cannot help us.”
Nessa stared.
“That sounds ominous.”
“I mean someone who cannot buy anything, influence anything, introduce anyone, or improve anyone’s quarterly numbers.”
“And how exactly do you intend to find that out?”
I smiled.
She immediately shook her head.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you made before you bought twelve failing stores in one weekend because another company said they were worthless.”
“That worked.”
“You also nearly bankrupted us.”
“Temporarily.”
She closed her eyes.
“What are you going to do?”
The plan sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud.
That was part of why I liked it.
I would disguise myself.
Not movie makeup.
Nothing elaborate enough to require professionals and confidentiality agreements.
I wanted the appearance to be crude enough that anyone who looked closely might see an old man under it, but most people would never look closely.
I cut my silver hair unevenly.
Trimmed parts too short and left other sections wild.
Glued a patchy gray beard along my jaw.
Found an old coat from a donation bin in one of our distribution centers.
Torn trousers.
Scuffed shoes.
A cane from storage.
Nessa watched from my private office with an expression of deep professional regret.
“You smell.”
“That’s deliberate.”
“What did you use?”
“Sour milk.”
“That is revolting.”
“Exactly.”
“You are going into one of your own stores smelling like spoiled dairy?”
“Yes.”
“And what is the test?”
“I ask for help.”
“From whom?”
“Everyone.”
She folded her arms.
“And then you hand the company to the first person who buys you soup?”
I looked at her.
“No.”
That was the part I had already thought through.
