The lawyer didn’t hand Noah a check. He handed him an iPad.
Playing on the screen was the viral footage from the diner: Noah kneeling in the freezing rain, pressing the bottle of juice into the old man’s shaking hands while a crowd of customers filmed.
“Mr. Bennett doesn’t just want to reward you,” the lawyer said as the SUV sped through the city. “He needs you to testify.”
They arrived at a towering glass skyscraper. Inside the penthouse boardroom, Arthur Bennett sat at the head of a mahogany table. He was no longer a soaked, shivering vagrant. He wore a pristine bespoke suit.
But it was the man sweating profusely in the corner that made Noah gasp.
His former manager.
“I wasn’t doing an *Undercover Boss* experiment, Noah,” Arthur’s voice was like crushed gravel. “And I wasn’t just hungry.”
Arthur slid a toxicology report across the glass table.
“I conducted a surprise, silent audit of Rosie’s Diner yesterday. Your manager recognized me. He’s been embezzling hundreds of thousands of dollars. To cover his tracks, he slipped a lethal, fast-acting neuro-toxin into my black coffee.”
Noah’s blood ran cold.
*He’s really sick,* Noah had pleaded at the door.
*Get back to work!* the manager had hissed, physically restraining Noah, desperate to let the old man quietly die on the wet pavement.
“When you rushed out there and drew a crowd of smartphones,” Arthur said coldly, looking at his former manager, “you ruined his perfect murder. The sugar in that juice bought my heart just enough time for the paramedics to arrive.”
Arthur stood and dropped a heavy set of keys into Noah’s hand.
“He fired you for making a scene,” Arthur smirked, his eyes flashing with vengeance. “I’m giving you his diner. Right after the police make a scene of their own.”