“ ‘Mistake?’” Paulette looked puzzled. “You don’t think—”

“He didn’t say anything about publishing,” Miriam said slowly. “Not one word. What were the other names on that list of small investors? The ones you didn’t check?”

“The list? He’s got—” Paulette frowned.

“Was Somerville Investments one of them?”

“Somerville? Could be. Why? Who are they?”

“Because that’s—” Miriam pointed a finger at the roof and circled. She watched Paulette’s eyes grow round.

“I’m thinking about magazine returns from the newsstand side of the business, Paulie. Don’t you know we’ve got low returns by industry standards? And people buy magazines for cash.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Paulie.”

When they got back to Miriam’s cubicle, a uniformed security guard and a suit from Human Resources were already waiting for them.

“Paulette Milan? Miriam Beckstein?” said the man from HR. He checked a notepad carefully.

“Yes?” Miriam asked cautiously. “What’s up?”

“Would you please follow me? Both of you?”

He turned and headed for the stairwell down to the main entrance. Miriam glanced around and saw the security guard pull a brief expression of discomfort. “Go on, ma’am.”

“Go on,” echoed Paulette from her left shoulder, her face white.

This can’t be happening, Miriam thought woodenly. She felt her feet carrying her toward the staircase and down, toward the glass doors at the front.

“Cards, please,” said the man from Human Resources. He held out his hand impatiently. Miriam passed him her card reluctantly: Paulette followed suit.

He cleared his throat and looked them over superciliously. “I’ve been told to tell you that The Industry Weatherman won’t be pressing charges,” he said. “We’ll clear your cubicles and forward your personal items and your final paycheck to your addresses of record. But you’re no longer allowed on the premises.” The security guard took up a position behind him, blocking the staircase. “Please leave.”