Chapter 43: The Columbus Foundation (Please keep reading!)

Hearing the question Verinise posed, Roan felt a wave of relief wash over him; it seemed this was merely a routine inquiry, not a sign that the FBI higher-ups genuinely suspected his identity. On further reflection, it made sense—Roan Greenwood’s background was spotless, the very model of an American middle-class upbringing. His parents' and his own life histories were clear and traceable, and all the required taxes had been paid—at least, as far as he could recall, nothing had ever been omitted. Moreover, Roan Greenwood had never associated with any dubious foreigners; by all accounts, he was an exemplary supporter of the American government.

So Roan remained perfectly calm. He tilted his head and pointed to the business card on her desk, asking, “May I have one?” Verinise nodded, and Roan rose to take a card, pinching it between two fingers. With a quick motion, he flicked it toward the calendar in the corner of the office.

A blurred shadow sliced through the air, and Verinise’s business card embedded itself firmly in the calendar.

“Just a little trick, ma’am,” Roan said with a shrug, noticing Verinise’s pupils contract ever so slightly. “I learned that move as a way to start conversations with girls.”

“Is that so?” Verinise gave Roan a long, searching look, then lowered her head to scribble in her folder, saying as she did, “But to drive a pen into someone’s skull, you must have practiced quite a bit.”

“No, ma’am,” Roan shook his head. Matters from his previous life couldn’t be counted now; in this life, he hadn’t practiced at all. He explained with genuine candor, “I’m just naturally a bit stronger than most.”

Verinise paused mid-sentence, shot Roan a glance, then tossed the finished file aside and finally addressed the real issue.

“Roan Greenwood,” she leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and stared at him unblinkingly. “Earlier at the press conference, I issued a warrant for the serial killer—ten thousand dollars. That money, along with your monthly salary, will be paid tomorrow, at the end of the week. You should let August know.”

Roan's eyes lit up, and he smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your support during the investigation.”

Verinise ignored his remark, instead pulling a black folder from the bottom of the stack beside her and handing it to Roan. Her tone was calm as she said,

“This is an internal FBI fund called the Columbus Foundation. If you join, the managers will deduct ten percent of your monthly salary to manage it. A few months later, at Christmas each year, you’ll receive an amount greater than the portion deducted.”

Roan raised his brows at her words, didn’t bother to look at the papers in the black folder, and asked directly, “Ma’am, did you join the Columbus Foundation?”

“Of course,” Verinise nodded, her expression unchanged. After a brief silence, she added, “August joined as well.”

Roan understood, licking his lips before asking further, “Can I know the annual rate of return for this foundation?”

“The rate isn’t fixed, Roan.” At this, Verinise uncrossed her legs, her mature figure leaning forward, eyes locked on Roan across the desk. “My annual return is higher than August’s, and August’s is higher than yours. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Roan nodded. So, the higher your position, the more you get at the end of the year. Nothing complicated about that.

He picked up a pen from the desk, uncapped it, flipped to the last page of the contract in the black folder, but didn’t sign immediately. Instead, he stared into Verinise’s eyes and asked solemnly, “One last question, ma’am. Can you tell me who hasn’t joined this foundation?”

The two locked eyes, Roan’s handsome features making Verinise’s heart skip a beat and her legs shift unconsciously.

She understood his subtext, her face regaining its severity. After a moment’s hesitation, Verinise replied, “There are plenty who haven’t joined, Roan. They don’t qualify… But Broson and several agents under him joined a different foundation.”

Roan nodded knowingly, finally grasping why Broson had previously targeted Verinise. It was all about the different—well, foundation allegiances.

Having gotten the answer he wanted, Roan twirled the pen, lowered his gaze in silent contemplation, and a peculiar glow flashed in his eyes as he signed his name on the last page of the folder.

Roan had never intended to refuse joining the Columbus Foundation. The reason was simple: to survive, one needed influence and connections. In America, individual strength meant little; it was all about banding together.

Yesterday’s press conference, in the eyes of those who pay attention, had essentially signaled Roan’s induction into the Columbus Foundation as Verinise’s subordinate. Whether he joined or not, he was already marked as one of Verinise’s men. Since joining came with financial benefits, why not?

Still, joining was one thing; he could take the money and choose his actions, but he would not leave any evidence that could be used against him. So, when he signed, he used the handwriting style from his previous life, not that of Roan Greenwood in this one. If trouble arose and handwriting analysis became necessary, things would get interesting. The kind of New York lawyers who could argue white was black for the right price would have a field day with the handwriting report.

Of course, this was just a precaution.

“Lucky I’ve only been here three days; my old habits haven’t merged with this life’s yet.” Looking at the bold, sweeping English letters in the folder, Roan felt a touch of reluctance. From now on, he could no longer use his old style of writing.

“Oh well, it’s worth it. Trading a handwriting style for a yearly payout in dollars—no loss at all!”

Having signed, Roan smiled and handed the black folder back to Verinise, asking with a grin, “Ma’am, are there any other foundations? I’d like to be happier than everyone else at Christmas each year.”

Verinise put away the black folder, threw him a fierce glare, and pointed at the calendar. “Twenty dollars will be deducted from your salary this month for damaging government property.”

This calendar is worth twenty dollars?

Roan’s face reddened at Verinise’s words, and he shoved his hand—hard—into his pocket, pulling out the twenty-dollar bill he had found in the “Daily Treasure Box” earlier.

“Ma’am, here’s twenty dollars. A field agent’s monthly salary isn’t much; please don’t deduct it.”

He placed the bill on the desk, grinned, and left the office.

Verinise stared at the closed door for a moment, then glanced at the twenty-dollar bill on her desk. After a brief silence, she smiled and tossed the bill beside the calendar. She wrote for a while, then slipped the twenty dollars into her pants pocket.