“You still have your credentials?”
“Financial advising was my life for thirty years. Even after everything collapsed, I couldn’t quite let go.”
Relief shifted his features. “Then we can do this properly.”
“I’d need complete access,” I continued. “Every bank statement, every loan document, every contract and agreement. No secrets, no off‑limits files.”
“Done.”
“I’d need authority to make recommendations. If I say restructure something, you consider it seriously. If I say liquidate an asset, you evaluate it.”
“Understood.”
“And I’d need my old consulting rate,” I said, naming a figure that made his eyebrows rise. “Plus equity if we turn this around. If I save your company, I own part of it.”
He was quiet for a long moment, calculating risks and rewards with the desperation of a drowning man offered a life preserver that might be made of concrete.
“Agreed,” he said finally. “But I have one condition.”
“Which is?”
“We position this as bringing in independent strategic consulting—professional turnaround expertise. My board doesn’t need to know you’ve been working at Murphy’s.”
I almost laughed. From senior partner to waitress to independent consultant. At least this trajectory was pointing upward again.
“Ashamed to admit you found your consultant in a diner?”
“Ashamed to admit I need outside help at all,” he corrected. “My business reputation is hanging by a thread.”
“Fair enough.” In the corporate world, admitting weakness is like chumming shark‑infested waters. “When do we start?”
“How about now?” He pulled out his phone and dialed. “James, it’s Harrison. Prepare a complete financial package for Wells Strategic Consulting. Everything—yes, everything. Have it ready by noon.”
He hung up and looked at me with something approaching hope.
“Welcome back to the game, Katherine Wells.”
I refilled his coffee, my hands steady for the first time in months. “Let’s see if I remember how to play.”
