Sign It In Front Of Her

"Sign the form, Nora."

Preston Renshaw set his gold pen on my clipboard like a period at the end of a sentence he had already decided. Behind him the twelfth floor of Renshaw Summit Tower rang with drills and wet concrete, and Diane Okafor stood at the edge of the plywood walkway in a white hard hat, waiting for the tour to move on to the next floor.

"I can't certify the stairwell egress until the muster board matches the filed plans," I said, keeping my clipboard flat against my chest. "Your site posts two exits. Your blueprints show one."

"That's an administrative lag," Renshaw said, his voice smooth for Diane's benefit. "Gus updates the board every Friday. You're reading a stale sheet."

"Then I'll wait for Friday's sheet."

Diane's eyes moved between us, polite and unreadable. "Preston, is something wrong with the inspection?"

"No problem," Renshaw said. "Just a probationary inspector who likes to slow things down."

Probationary. He landed on the word carefully, precisely, the way a man lands on a word he looked up that morning. My license had been on a ninety-day clock for two months, one more complaint away from gone, and everyone on this site knew it.

"I'll sign when the board matches the plans," I said. "Not before."

Renshaw's jaw worked once. He reached into his coat and pulled out a plain envelope, thick enough to bow in the middle, and set it on the folding table between us.

"Call it a consulting stipend," he said. "For the extra hours you've put into this site. Sign the form, take the envelope, and we all get back to work before Ms. Okafor's flight."

I looked at the envelope. I looked at Diane, who had gone very still, watching to see what I would do with it.

"I'm not signing anything I haven't verified," I said, and pushed the envelope back an inch with two fingers. "Update the board. Then we'll talk."

The drills on the far side of the floor cut out one by one, the crew close enough to hear the quiet. Renshaw's smile stayed exactly where it was, but his eyes went flat and cold in a way the smile didn't cover.

"You understand what a formal complaint from a client does to a probationary license," he said, low enough that only I would catch it. "Sign the form, Nora, or you'll never inspect another site in this state."

I picked the envelope up anyway, holding it by the corner like it might still be wet.

"Then file your complaint," I said. "I'll be at the muster board."