Chương 8
"How?"
Emily swallowed.
"Because Grandpa added me years ago."
Daniel looked toward the stairs.
Noah's footsteps moved across the floor above them.
"When?"
"I was eighteen."
"I would have remembered that."
"You were busy."
The words landed harder because they were partly true.
Daniel hated that.
He had spent years telling himself he had sacrificed everything for his family.
He had not considered that sacrifice could also look like absence.
"I was trying to keep this company alive," he said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
Emily looked down.
"I know because I watched you miss birthdays and dinners and every vacation we ever planned."
Daniel felt the old defense rise immediately.
Then he saw her face.
Not accusing.
Not really.
Just tired.
"I thought I was doing it for you."
"I know."
"Then why does it sound like you hate me for it?"
Emily shook her head.
"I do not hate you."
She looked at the document on the table.
"I hate that you think loving us means never letting anyone help you."
The sentence stayed between them.
Daniel had no answer.
Outside, a car door slammed.
Someone shouted across the street.
A dog barked twice and stopped.
Normal sounds.
Annoying sounds.
Necessary sounds.
Emily reached for the envelope.
"I was trying to buy time."
"With my company."
"With the company you were about to lose."
He looked at her.
"What are you not telling me?"
Her fingers stopped on the paper.
That was the moment he knew there was more.
Not because of the silence.
Because of the way she folded the corner of the envelope back into place.
Claire used to do that when she was hiding something.
"Emily."
She closed her eyes.
"The debt is not the only problem."
Daniel waited.
"The buyer who has been negotiating with us for months?"
"Yes."
"That was never about buying the company."
A cold feeling moved through him.
"What was it about?"
Emily looked toward the stairs where Noah was humming quietly to himself.
"It was about getting access to something inside the old records."
"What records?"
"The ones Grandpa kept."
Daniel felt his stomach tighten.
His father had kept everything.
Receipts.
Contracts.
Notes.
Private agreements.
Things Daniel had spent years trying not to remember.
"What did my father leave behind?"
Emily looked at him.
"I do not know."
She paused.
"But someone thinks you do."
The house became quiet again.
Daniel picked up the envelope.
For the first time since opening it, he stopped looking at his signature.
He looked at the date.
June fourteenth.
The day after Emily had called him and asked why he never talked about the year his father almost lost the company.
The day after he had told her there was nothing worth talking about.
The day after she had stopped asking questions.
Daniel walked to the old cabinet beside the kitchen.
He had not opened the bottom drawer in years.
The handle stuck.
He pulled harder.
Inside were old keys, faded photographs, and a small black notebook with his father's handwriting across the cover.
Daniel touched it and immediately pulled his hand back.
Emily noticed.
"What is it?"
He stared at the notebook.
"I do not know."
But his voice told her that was not true.
Daniel did not touch the notebook again.
He pulled a chair away from the cabinet and sat down, keeping his hands on his knees like he was afraid they might reach for something they were not ready to hold.
Emily remained standing near the kitchen table.
She did not pressure him.
That was almost worse.
"When was the last time you looked at that?" she asked.
Daniel stared at the black cover.
"Years ago."
"How many?"
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his wedding ring, a habit he had developed after Claire died and never noticed himself doing.
"I don't know."
Emily looked at him.
"You always know."
The comment was quiet, but it landed.
Daniel looked away.
There were things a person could forget because they did not matter.
There were other things a person forgot because remembering them required admitting something.
"I found it after the funeral," he said.
Emily's expression changed.
"After Mom?"
He nodded.
"Your grandfather's office was being cleaned out."
"You never told me."
"There was nothing to tell."
She gave a small, tired laugh.
"You keep saying that."
Daniel reached toward the notebook but stopped before touching it.
His father had written in that notebook during the last year before his heart attack.
Daniel remembered the way the older man carried it everywhere.
The way he would close it whenever Daniel walked into the room.
The way he had once said some things were safer written down because people had a way of hearing what they expected to hear.
At the time, Daniel had assumed it was about business.
Now he was not so sure.
Noah came down the stairs holding a cardboard spaceship covered in silver paint.
"Grandpa, can you help me fix the wing?"
Neither of them answered immediately.
The boy looked between them.
"Did I interrupt something?"
Daniel forced his face to change.
"No."
Noah lifted the broken piece.
"It broke in my backpack."
Daniel took the spaceship.
The wing was attached with dried glue and a piece of tape that had started peeling away.
For some reason, the small repair felt harder than dealing with legal documents.
He found a roll of tape in the drawer and fixed the wing while Noah watched closely.
"You're putting too much on the left side," Noah said.
Daniel looked at him.
"What?"
"The tape."
The boy pointed.
"You're making it heavier."
Emily smiled faintly.
"He's been rebuilding everything lately."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
Noah shrugged.
"The first versions are usually bad."
Daniel almost smiled.
Almost.
After Noah went back upstairs, the silence returned.
Emily leaned against the counter.
"I didn't want him to see us fighting."
"We weren't fighting."
"We were."
May you like
Daniel looked at her.
"You changed ownership of my company without telling me."
