It's Christmas Eve, the Treasurer is enjoying a school performance of Princess Buttercup and the Spirit of Christmas when suddenly...
Chapter 1: The call to miss
They call me the Treasurer. I have a name, but what of it? Treasury is what I do, so be it. If it were up to me, they wouldn't call me at all. In my books, no news is good news. In my books, the numbers are right. Always. They must be.
So, imagine my surprise when, halfway through Princess Buttercup and the Spirit of Christmas, I sneak a peek at my phone and see the missed calls staring back at me.
Twelve of them. One for every day of Christmas, but none of them about a partridge in a pear tree, I could tell. All in the last fifteen minutes. The last one from the one with all the golden rings, the one whose tune all piper play, the Big Cheese himself.
The CFO.
The man who never calls unless he wants something explained, fixed, or apologized for, usually in that order.
I shouldn't have looked. Force of habit. The time for pictures is at the end. You clap politely, tell the kid they shone brighter than the star they were stapled to, maybe grab a celebratory snack on the way home. You don’t check your phone in the middle of the Nutcracker battalion sacrificing themselves for the Spirit of Christmas.
But there was I, and there was my phone. Blinking at me, shuddering at my touch like a jealous lover, eager to alert me about my mistakes.
Twelve calls. No messages.
The kind of pattern you don't need a crystal ball to decypher. Something’s wrong, or someone thinks it is. Small difference. No news is good news. Bad news, the worst.
On stage Buttercup was doing their best to save Christmas. Offstage, I was trying to figure out how quickly I could stand up without looking like a villain. Like it mattered.
Crisis doesn't wait for the curtain call.
Chapter 2: Exit, Pursued by a balance sheet
Some folks trust luck. Some trust miracles, and maybe there is a world out there where things just work out without someone lifting a finger. Or someone else is getting pointed by one.
It's not my world. And judging how Princess Buttercup’s quest for the Christmas Spirit was going, it wasn't hers either. She had hope, though. In treasury, you don't get to hope. You check. You verify. You calculate until the numbers confess.
Princess Buttercup might’ve had belief, but that’s a luxury I don't afford. I deal in cash positions and counterparty risk. I'm not a mind reader. The only magic I believe in is reconciling to zero.
I made excuses, blaming the tar-black coffee served before the show. Nodded at a few parents who thought I was ducking out for a smoke or a moment of peace.
I slipped through the rows, dodging boots, coats, a pair of reindeer antlers, and the unmistakable smell of warm apple cider. Lucky dog.
Outside the auditorium, the hallway felt colder. Bigger. Too quiet for comfort.
From my phone to the laptop, I followed the Christmas cookie crumbs straight to my dashboard. My compass. My lifeline.
And there it was. We were coming up short. Not a lot. Too much. I was looking at shortfall small enough to fix if you knew where to look, big enough to make your life difficult if you didn’t. I didn't like what I saw. The feeling was probably mutual.
Not a crisis. Not yet. But close enough to smell like one.
The Big Cheese didn't call twelve times because he wanted to wish me Merry Christmas.
I needed answers, fast. Preferably before the call number thirteen.
Chapter 3: Murder by the numbers
There's always a reason. Could be a good one, could be a stupid one, but everything has a cause. Princess Buttercup didn’t “accidentally” lose the Spirit of Christmas. The script demanded it. Same with liquidity. Gaps don’t happen because the universe is bored. Someone somewhere pushed a button, missed a step, or got creative in a way that ruins your evening.
I could’ve called the Big Cheese back.
Said something brave and useless like, “I’m on it.”
But that’s not why he called. That’s not what he wants. The man doesn’t want the chase; he wants the capture. He wants the why, wrapped and labeled.
So do I.
Because if this were a real liquidity crisis — the kind that keeps CEOs awake and boards sharpening knives — I’d have felt it coming. I always do. My numbers are right. That’s not pride talking. That’s survival.
So it had to be something smaller. Something petty. Something human.
Slippery fingers. A late report. A cutoff time missed in some far corner of the earth.
A formula overwritten by someone who thinks VLOOKUP is a lifestyle choice.
I knew the list. I lived by it.
And I had a plan.
Three suspects, each more likely than the last.
Even Buttercup had only three clues to regain Christmas.
I wasn’t going to let the princess show me up.
Chapter 4: Dial M for Mismatch
I said I had a plan. I always do.
I didn’t say it was a good plan.
As a treasurer, my life is a series of suspects, each more unreliable than the last. Excel, bank cutoffs, subsidiaries, the kind of internal processes that may look solid. Then you touch it and you realize they’re made of wet cardboard.
But on this night, under the flickering fluorescents of the school hallway, only one suspect seemed bold enough to strike while Princess Buttercup was still hunting for the Spirit of Christmas.
Excel.
It couldn’t be my Excel. I made it.
Granted, we weren’t supposed to be using it as a group anymore, but some folks hang on to old templates the way a drowning man holds a rope. Except this rope is soaked, fraying, and probably tied to the wrong ship.
So I pulled open the sheet. There it was.
My proud creation.
Formulas marching in step like tin soldiers in Buttercup’s toy army.
Everything looked right. Too right.
I checked the audit log. One update. Time-stamped just before the first missed call. That alone should’ve made me sweat, but no.
It was from the one subsidiary rep I trusted not to pour coffee into a laptop by accident. The sheet was clean.
Better than clean. Pristine. A little too pristine.
Back on stage I heard the crowd gasp. Something big must’ve happened. Probably a plot twist involving a gingerbread prophecy.
I had my own prophecies to worry about. Excel was innocent. I could feel it in my bones.
Which meant someone - or something - else had stepped into the spotlight.
What a night. And it was only getting started.
Chapter 5: The cold feed
There’s a formula for everything.
At least that’s what I tell myself when the numbers get slippery.
Forecasting? =IF(LIFE, TRY, COFFEE).
Reconciliations? =SUM(FEARS).
Liquidity gaps? =WHYNOW().
Treasury is like plumbing. If nothing’s leaking, someone just hasn’t checked hard enough.
So I checked.
Bank portals first. Always the banks.
You’d think institutions handling billions and billions would keep it tight, but they always find a way to surprise you. In the worst ways.
Cutoff times drift around like ghosts. Transactions disappear for hours, sometimes days. It's almost the whole thing is held together with compliance tape and the stubborn belief that “value today” means anything at all.
I logged in.
Refreshed.
Waited.
Refreshed again.
Nothing.
No lag. No missing flows. No inbound stuck in the twilight zone between “processing” and “trust us, it’s coming.” No outbound that had gone rogue.
If you look long enough into a liquidity gap, it eventually begins to look back through you. Who said that?
Somewhere behind me, the auditorium erupted in cheers. Buttercup must’ve scored a goal, rescued something or someone or possibly learned the true meaning of kindness from a tap-dancing elf.
Good for her.
I, on the other hand, was running out of suspects fast.
I stared at the dashboard again. It blinked back, slowly, waiting for my next move.
We weren’t in a crisis, that much I could tell.
But we weren’t clean either.
Something small. Something stupid. Something human.
There’s a formula for nearly everything.
Except people.
People don’t add up. They just hope you won’t notice.
One more avenue to investigate. One more shadow to look into.
Chapter 6: The ghosts of forecast past
Timing is everything.
In treasury, timing turns numbers into fact. Or fiction.
I pulled up the subsidiary reports. The usual culprits. A cast of crooked figures that wouldn’t look out of place in Princess Buttercup’s magical kingdom. They had the spirit, plural. These guys worked hard, played harder, and submitted reports with the accuracy of a blindfolded archer.
Tonight, though?
Their file was early.
Neat.
Buttoned up like a kid who just heard Santa has been watching them both asleep and awake.
That bothered me more than any missing millions.
People don’t change. Not overnight. Especially not finance people.
If they suddenly look tidy, it’s because they spilled something and are hoping you won’t smell it.
I read through it line by line.
Some rounding errors.
A few questionable reclassifications.
But nothing worthy of twelve missed calls. Nothing that matched the exact, precise shortfall staring at me from the dashboard like I personally owed it money.
On stage, Buttercup must have been mid-redemption arc. I could hear the swelling music. The kind that tells you everything will work out as long as the hero believes hard enough.
Cute.
But belief isn’t enough to plug liquidity holes.
I leaned back.
Something wasn’t adding up.
Not Excel. Not banks. Not subs.
Which left only one explanation.
The kind nobody likes.
The kind you don’t say out loud until, you’re sure.
Someone, somewhere, had started acting without checking if they should.
And if that was true…
Chapter 7: Anything for a quiet life
I had my plan ready for action, but something still didn’t sit right. When you’ve been around numbers long enough, you hear them speak. Not in words, but in the way they move. The way they hide. These numbers were hiding — but clumsily. Like a drunk uncle behind a Christmas tree, feet sticking out, giggling at their own cleverness.
The audience inside the auditorium was rising toward some climactic moment. Maybe Buttercup had spotted the Spirit of Christmas hiding in the prop’s cupboard. Maybe Elvis the Rocking Pony came galloping back from the abyss in a blaze of redemption and candy canes. Who knew. Whatever it was, they sounded sure the end was near.
I wasn’t, but I could feel it coming.
I replayed the night in my head.
The calls.
The timing.
The exact amount missing.
Too exact to be accidental.
Too familiar to be random.
Then it clicked.
A quiet, miserable little click. The kind that means you’ve known the truth all along. The empty whisper of a shot never fired.
I knew what had happened.
And I knew how to stitch the landing.
Time to call the Big Cheese back.
Time to sound confident.
Time to pretend I hadn’t just spent an hour chasing shadows when the answer had been sitting right there like a badly-wrapped Christmas present you wish you'd saved the receipt for.
“I’ve got it under control,” I rehearsed under my breath.
“The numbers are sound.”
“We’re fine.”
Inside, the audience roared. The climax had passed.
Princess Buttercup had found what she was looking for.
So had I.
Chapter 8: The Spirit of Christmas
“So, what happened to the Spirit of Christmas?” the Big Cheese asked.
Not a greeting.
Not a question about the shortfall.
After several tries, I'd gotten through him. The wait had given me time to rehearse my lines so much they tasted like three-week dead turkey in my mouth. Clean ones. Professional ones. The kind that made me sound like I’d slept last night.
None of them mattered. The Big Cheese just barreled on:
“Tell me,” he said.
He didn’t sound angry.
He sounded… satisfied.
And when I did, I'm not sure he listened.
“That’s good,” he continued. I could imagine him leaning back like a man who knows nothing better than his own private jokes. “Means you’re prioritizing. Family first. Christmas first. I only called to make sure you wouldn’t pick up.”
I suddenly felt very heavy and stupid.
“You weren’t… calling about the numbers?” I finally managed.
“Numbers? No. Your numbers are always right. I know that.”
He said it like it was the weather. Obvious, predictable, unchanging. Always there.
“So, what were all the calls for?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Wanted to check if you’d finally learned to ignore me during off-hours. It’s Christmas, after all. Even you should get one night to breathe.”
The shortfall?
Caused by a late-paying customer. An office Christmas party, too much holiday cheer, nothing more sinister than that.
But I didn’t say it.
They call me the Treasurer.
My numbers are always right.
