Sitting in Mrs. Henderson's economics class—which was ironic on a level that bordered on spiritual comedy—I tried not to let my eyes glaze over as she explained supply and demand like we were still bartering for goats in the Stone Age.
It was painful.
Not just because she was wrong, but because she was confidently wrong, which is a special kind of violence. I probably understood more about real economics than she did—and by "probably," I mean I could destabilize a small nation's currency before lunch.
But I forced myself to reel in the superiority complex—temporarily—and focus on the bigger problem that had been gnawing at the edges of my otherwise immaculate high: the massive, gaping, IRS-sized flaw in my master plan.
I'd pulled it off. Total ghost mode. Zero trails. Nobody could trace Charlotte's rescue or the sudden influx of her company later to me.
