On Tuesday, Trevor sent me an email.

Indiana. The board will have questions. Prepare answers to these by tomorrow. Make them sound like me.

There were twenty questions. Some of them showed he hadn't understood the report at all.

Why does it matter what time customers shop?

What is the main reason for the losses again?

I sat at my photocopier desk and looked at the list for a long time.

I could refuse. I could let him stand up in front of the board and fall flat on his face.

But then the board might not believe the report. And if they didn't believe the report, they'd close the thirty stores. Including Carver Falls.

So I wrote the answers. Clear, simple, true. I sent them back.

Then I opened the shared document one last time, just to check he hadn't broken anything.

He'd changed my name on the front page. He'd deleted my name from the bottom of every page.

But he hadn't read the footnotes.

Footnote fourteen was still there. Exactly as I'd written it. My grandmother's name. Her café. The window.

I thought about deleting it. Then I thought about what Grandma Dot had said.

Be honest.

I left it exactly where it was.