“Gregory went to Pier Forty instead of Pier Forty-Two,” I murmured.

“Exactly,” Julian said. “The federal agents at Pier Forty were very pleased with the donation. They wrote it down on their official forms.”

I closed my eyes, visualizing the shipping schedule I had managed for six years.

Without me to color-code the routes and verify the dates, the Costello empire was a machine with sand in its gears.

“He will figure it out,” I said, though I knew he wouldn’t.

“No, he won’t,” Julian said. “He is drowning. The unions are threatening to strike by Monday because the pension payments didn’t clear.”

“I used to authorize those manually every Thursday,” I said.

“Arthur forgot,” Julian said. “He thought it was automated.”

I felt a cold prickle of satisfaction in my chest.

For years, Arthur had told me that anyone could do my job.

“You are a girl with a clipboard, Clara,” he had said during our last argument, pouring himself three fingers of scotch. “I can find ten of you at any secretarial school in the city.”

I had smiled then, keeping my hands folded in my lap.