002: When Bob Showed Up Without Saying a Word
What happens when intuition sees what emotion wants to ignore.
This is the second story in the five-part series, White Collar, Black Ink. You can find the full, updated series at the end of this piece.
Donna always sounded like she knew something and wouldn’t say it unless asked. We’d spoken several times before. She had the voice of a Friday night radio host, the kind that played whatever song you needed, right when you needed it.
She always remembered me.
Sweet. Thoughtful.
Not just polite but present.
She sent a bouquet of fruit to my office to celebrate my grand opening. Flowers would have been nice, but this was at a time when my schedule went from 9–5 to all day and all night. And as my teeth sank into a piece of cantaloupe, I realized how malnourished I felt.
The last time we spoke, she mentioned she had three photos of my building.
She said she admired the project.
But I never sent her those photos.
And she hadn’t told me who did.
I brushed it off.
As I drafted an email to her, that detail tugged at me.
And others started returning.
Donna knew of Bob.
Everyone did.
He was an industry legend in Arizona.
Known for spotting the best small business projects before anyone else. He backed the ones worth betting on. And I was proud to be one of them.
Chosen.
Funded.
The kind of client other founders whispered about.
Being chosen is a powerful anesthetic.
It explains away the parts that don’t add up.
Like photos you never sent.
Donna never met him either.
But she had the photos.
And she told me, he submitted them.
My intuition started knocking.
Ask.
Dig.
But I didn’t want to tip her off.
Didn’t want to seem emotional.
Didn’t want to seem… ungrateful.
She mentioned Bob’s name was on the insurance policy.
She caught it mid-call.
Said it was an error and removed him.
Right there while we spoke.
Clerical mistake.
Problem solved.
Except… here it was again.
Another envelope.
And his name was still there.
I deleted the email.
I called her instead.
Expecting her voice.
Her warmth.
Expecting her to say, What song do you want to hear today?
A man answered.
He gave me the news.
Donna had passed.
She’d been sick—quietly.
Still helping people.
Still smiling through it.
He said the least he could do was finish what she started.
I was silent.
Grief washed over me.
Not just for the kindness she offered—but for how much she did that no one saw.
My emotion wanted to hang up.
Just say thank you.
Grieve.
Move on.
But my intuition—the part that had been whispering since the moment those photos came up—held the phone steady and handed me the words.
I asked about Bob.
Told him: Bob shouldn’t be on the policy. He wasn’t the lender.
The man paused.
I heard the soft click of a keyboard.
“Ma’am, I’m looking at the official record here,” he said, his voice polite but firm. “Everything appears to be in order as written.”