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‘That’s correct.’
    ‘What the heck are we spending money on? Super Bowl ads?’
    ‘David has very elaborate marketing plans,’ Joan says. Her tone is without judgement. ‘I assume he went over the details with you.’
    ‘No,’ I say. ‘He discussed his...
strategic vision
.’ I point to the diagram on the whiteboard behind me. Joan regards it thoughtfully. She has the sharp look of
a museum curator trying to determine a new piece’s provenance. Finally, she says: ‘If you like, I can print an itemized transaction report. You can see where the money actually
goes.’
    ‘That would be very helpful.’ I like Joan already. Super-competent, quiet, authoritative. I say, ‘You’re good, Joan.’ What I want to ask is: How did you wind up in
a place like this? But it’s a question that could easily be thrown back at me. And one I’d rather not answer. So I say instead: ‘Why only “Acting Controller”? Why not
CFO? Or VP of Finance?’
    She presses her thin freckled lips together and looks down. This is apparently a sore subject. She says, ‘There was a CFO. Ellison Jeffries. He left a few months ago. It was all very
sudden. I never found out why. Charles was going to hire a replacement, but he never got around to it. So I took over the CFO responsibilities, just not his title.’
    ‘Well then,’ I say. ‘Congratulations. You’re the new CFO of Tao Software.’
    She studies me, trying to decide if I’m joking. When she realizes I’m not, her face brightens. ‘Really?’
    Sure, I think silently, why the hell not? Enjoy it while it lasts – seven weeks. But I say aloud: ‘Absolutely. Congratulations. No pay raise, though. Not right now.’
    ‘I understand. Thank you,’ she says. She stands suddenly. She leans over the table, holds out her hand awkwardly. ‘Thank you,’ she says again.
    I take her hand. ‘Work hard,’ I say, trying to sound dour and serious. I don’t want anyone at the company to think I’m a softy.
    ‘OK,’ she says, and nods grimly, ‘I will.’
    She gathers her papers, stacks them into a neat pile, and turns to leave.
    As she heads to the door, I say, ‘Joan?’
    She stops, with her hand on the knob, and turns to me.
    I’m not sure what prompts my next question. Maybe it was Joan’s remark about the Chief Financial Officer, whose role at Tao she assumed when he suddenly departed the company. Or
maybe it’s my sketchy knowledge about the CEO who preceded me, and his own sudden disappearance. That’s a lot of mysterious departures, for one tiny company.
    In fact, I know very little about the company I now run. I was so relieved to be given this job, I didn’t ask many questions. A restart job in West Florida? Sure, why the hell not, I
said.
    What was my alternative? Running down the last six months of my and Libby’s savings? Taking out a third mortgage on our Palo Alto house? Continuing my daily routine of flipping through old
business cards, dialling lost friends and begging for second chances? No. They could have offered me a position in the seventh ring of hell, acting as chief bean counter for Satan, and I would have
said yes.
    But now that I’m here – and the job is mine, for better or worse – I might as well learn what I’ve gotten myself into. I say to Joan: ‘What happened to Charles
Adams?’
    Joan’s response is surprising. Her smile disappears. She looks down at the floor. Her face turns dark and troubled, as if I’ve brought up an uncomfortable topic, like masturbation or
necrophilia.
    I know almost nothing about Charles Adams, or about his disappearance. I know only the broad outlines, as related to me by Tad Billups the day I signed my employment contract: one Wednesday
morning, nine weeks ago, Charles Adams, CEO of Tao Software, vanished.
    That’s how Tad described it – he ‘vanished’.
    ‘Vanished?’ I asked Tad.
    Yes, vanished, Tad said. He left his car idling in his suburban driveway, its driver-side door open. He left