Damage Control by Robert Dugoni

there were seven, one for each dwarf. She felt the soft bristles touch her scalp and glide through her hair, the strokes in rhythm with her mother’s cadence, until she had heard the sound of the car in the driveway. She recalled her father’s footsteps ascending the staircase. In her mind, she raised her eyes and saw him standing on the top stair, looking into the room, though not crossing the threshold.
    Her mother would continue to brush. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?” she would ask, not looking at him.
    “I ate at the office.”
    “Did you get everything finished?”
    “Not everything.”
    “James waited up for you.”
    “I’ll tuck him in,” he’d say, and his footsteps would soften down the hall.
    Then her mother would place the brush on the nightstand, close the book, and cover Dana with blankets, tucking them under her chin and bending to kiss her on each cheek, the nose, the forehead, and finally, the lips.
    “Why are you crying?” Dana would ask, feeling the moisture on her mother’s cheeks.
    “Because I love you so very much,” her mother would whisper.
    “Why are you crying, Mom?”
    Dana opened her eyes. Molly stared at her from the bed. Dana wiped her cheeks as she entered the room. Her mother continued to stroke the little girl’s hair. Dana bent down and kissed Molly on each cheek, the nose, the forehead, and finally, the lips. “Because I love you so very much,” she whispered.

14
    T HE FLOOR OUTSIDE her office vibrated. Dana reached for the phone on her desk and placed it to her ear, but the door did not burst open. She hung up, wondering how long it would be before Marvin Crocket regained his nerve. Her first day back at work, their paths had crossed that morning in the hallway, and Crocket had considered her warily, likely recalling that the last time they crossed paths, she had hurled a standard-size office desk at him. According to Linda, Crocket had burst from the office that day like a bull running the streets of Pamplona and didn’t stop until he reached the office of Gary Thurmond, ranting and raving for fifteen minutes, an expletive-filled diatribe on Dana’s mental instability and lack of professional conduct. Crocket had concluded with a request for Dana’s head on a platter. Barring that, he sought her immediate expulsion. Thurmond, a sixty-five-year-old warhorse who had known and respected James Hill, Sr., in the courtroom and on the golf course, didn’t agree. The morning of her return, her nameplate remained affixed to the wall outside her office door, and a bouquet of flowers had been arranged on her desk.
    The floor shook again. Dana snatched up the telephone a split second before Crocket burst in. “We have to get the proposal to Corrugated Indus—”
    She looked up at him with feigned indignity, then returned to her imaginary conversation, leaving him to fidget. When he did not immediately leave, she rested the phone on her shoulder and held her hands as wide apart as she could to indicate her conversation would be lengthy. Frowning, Crocket mimed in response that he wanted an immediate call. He left without closing her door. Dana waited a beat before hanging up. Linda peered in from the hallway. “Is there anything you need?”
    Dana shook her head. “No, thank you, Linda. I’m fine. Could you shut my door?”
    Linda stepped in and closed the door behind her. In her twenties, she had fire-red hair, multiple earrings in her right earlobe, a nose ring, and a tattoo on her back. She didn’t exactly project the corporate-law-firm image that Strong & Thurmond sought to foster in Washington’s competitive market for elite corporate clients, but Linda had been discreet. She had interviewed in a conservative blue suit with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and had retained the vestiges of that appearance throughout her ninety-day trial period. When she emerged some of the shareholders wanted to fire her, but she had proved an excellent