Page 4 of His Daughter

Caleb's hand slipped from mine.

Janet was talking again. Her mouth was moving. Sounds came out. But they didn't reach me.

I looked down. The file was still open in my lap. The page about the birthmark faced up. A heart-shaped birthmark on the inside of her left wrist. My fingertip had worn a faint groove into the paper from all the times I'd traced that line.

I stared at the words on the page. The ink blurred. I blinked, and the blur ran down my face in two warm lines that dripped from my jaw onto the paper, darkening the ink, bleeding the words into each other until I couldn't read them anymore.

My ears were still ringing.

TWO

DECLAN

"Gentlemen," I began as I walked into the conference room at Ashton Lark Capital with my chief of staff, Graham, two steps behind me. My eyes swept the table before my second foot crossed the threshold. Glass walls, polished walnut, expensive furniture. That was why Victor Sloane thought he could toss me around. I was going to prove him wrong.

Six bankers lined up on one side like a jury, two junior associates clutched their folders at the end. Three seats down sat the only woman at the table — dark hair pinned back, silk blouse, a legal pad in front of her. She looked up when I walked in. I smiled at her.

At the head, Victor Sloane sat with his jaw set, bald head shining under the fluorescent light. Well, good for you, Victor.

Nolan Reeves stood behind his own chair — six feet of stillness in a black suit, close-cropped hair, dark-skinned and unhurried, hands loose at his sides. Julian Cross had already made himself comfortable. A navy jacket was slung over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled to the forearm. His hazel eyes found mine, and he gave me the faintest nod.

I sat. I waved my hand without turning. Graham disappeared and returned with three coffees — black for Nolan, oat milk for Julian, and a double espresso for me. He set them down without a sound, adjusted his wire-framed glasses, and folded himself against the wall.

I leaned back, crossing one ankle over my knee while looking at Sloane. "This place is as quiet as a graveyard. Why so gloomy, gentlemen? You've been waiting for me, no?"

Sloane didn't smile back. That was fine. I had enough smiles for both of us.

"Mr. Hale," Sloane began, "we have concerns about the leverage ratios on the Lassiter deal. The debt load you're proposing exceeds what our risk committee is comfortable underwriting at current spreads."

"Your risk committee." I picked up my espresso and took a sip. Wonderful. Ashton Lark had terrible negotiators but excellent coffee. "Victor, your risk committee flagged the Montclair deal in 2019. We closed with a threefold return after eighteen months. Then the Hargrove restructuring. Returned 4:1 by year two." I set the cup down. "How is your risk committee, by the way? Do they need anything? Warmer socks? A night-light?"

Julian coughed into his coffee. Nolan didn't move. One of the junior associates bit his lip.

Sloane's neck turned a shade of red that clashed with his purple tie. "This isn't Montclair. The asset base is fundamentally different, and the cash flow projections — "

"Are conservative." I slid the revised model across the table. "My team reran the numbers using your committee's preferred discount rate. Even under the most conservative assumptions, the coverage ratio remains at 1:8 times through the first thirty-six months." I tapped the page. "That's with a 12% haircut on projected Earnings before Interests, Taxes, Depreciation and Amortization (EBITDA). We built in your pessimism, for you. You're welcome."

Sloane opened the folder and read. His banker to the left leaned in and whispered something that sounded like a white flag.

“We’re concerned about the syndication timeline,” Sloane said. “If we can’t place the senior tranche by — ”

"You'll place it. Three of your top five institutional buyers have already received term sheets from my office. Informally, of course." I spread my hands. "We'd never presume."

Silence. Sloane's pen tapped the table. He was running out of angles, calculating whether he had enough pride left to burn or whether he should just take the deal and bill for it. I decided to help him along.

"Let me save you the trouble." My voice dropped, and the room dropped with it. "You underwrote the Bellamy acquisition for Fortress last quarter at worse terms and higher leverage. I know, because I read the filing. So either your risk committee has a selective memory, or this conversation is about something other than risk." I held his eyes. "Which is it?"

Victor Sloane sat back, looked at the folder, then at me. He picked up his pen, uncapped it, and frowned as he signed the first page. "I'll have the commitment letter to your office by the end of the week."

"Wonderful." I stood, as I carefully buttoned my jacket and smoothed the front. Victor had earned the extra five seconds of watching me not rush. "Nice doing business with you, gentlemen."

I turned to leave and caught the woman's eye. I nodded. "Lady."

She blinked as I walked out.

Nolan fell into step on my right. Julian appeared on my left, shrugging his jacket on as we moved through the marble lobby. Our shoes echoed on the stone floor — three different rhythms that somehow sounded like one.

"The night-light comment was excessive," Julian said, grinning. "Nolan, thoughts?"