Chương 12
I closed my folder.
“How’s your health?”
He seemed surprised.
“Manageable.”
“Mom said you had a stroke.”
“She should not have burdened you with that.”
“She didn’t.”
He looked toward the closed door.
“She sees June.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“Does that bother you?”
He adjusted his hand on the cane.
“Your mother makes her own decisions.”
I almost smiled.
“That’s new.”
He noticed.
A little of the old steel returned.
“You always did enjoy insolence when you thought you had the advantage.”
“And you always confused disagreement with insolence.”
His eyes sharpened.
Then something tired passed through them.
“How is June?”
I looked at him.
He had never asked me directly in five years.
“She’s fifteen.”
“I know her age.”
“She sings.”
“I know.”
“She hates chemistry.”
He nodded.
“She still draws?”
The question caught me.
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“Your mother showed me a picture.”
There were a hundred things I could have said.
None seemed useful.
He touched the edge of the folder.
“Does she remember?”
My chest tightened.
“You mean the cake?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
His jaw moved once.
“Does she remember me?”
I stared at him.
“That’s not the same question.”
“No.”
“She remembers you.”
He waited.
I let him.
Finally, he asked, “What does she say?”
“Not much.”
That hurt him.
I could tell.
A younger version of me would have enjoyed it.
I did not.
He looked toward the window.
“I handled that badly.”
I almost laughed again.
“Badly?”
He turned back.
“I am trying.”
“No.”
My voice stayed quiet.
“You are trying to describe it without saying what you did.”
His face hardened.
“I gave you a choice.”
“You threatened me while my daughter was bleeding.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I.”
“You assaulted your brother.”
“And I told June I was wrong for that.”
He looked at me.
“Did you ever tell Blake he was wrong?”
Silence.
“Did you tell Mom?”
Nothing.
“Did you tell yourself?”
His fingers tightened around the cane.
“I should not have said what I said.”
It was the nearest thing to an apology he had ever given me.
It still was not one.
I stood.
“We need to get back.”
“Ethan.”
I stopped at the door.
“If Ardent invests, what happens to Blake?”
“That depends on Blake.”
“And me?”
I looked at him.
“You?”
“My position.”
For one second, I was back at ten years old, then twenty, then thirty-seven, watching my father ask what every decision meant for the structure around him.
I opened the door.
“I’m not here to decide whether you keep your chair.”
He looked almost offended.
“That isn’t my job.”
“Then what is?”
“To decide whether the company deserves one more chance.”
I returned to the conference room.
Blake was already there.
His face had been washed.
He had removed his tie.
Evelyn sat at the head of the table.
“We’re prepared to outline preliminary conditions.”
Blake looked at me, then at our father entering behind me.
“What conditions?”
Evelyn folded her hands.
“Capital in exchange for preferred equity, two board seats, revised lending covenants, mandatory monthly project forecasting, independent audit of backlog quality, compensation changes, and appointment of a chief operating officer with authority over execution.”
Blake stared at her.
“Above me?”
“Beside you operationally.”
“That’s above me.”
“Only if you continue treating information as hierarchy.”
He looked at my father.
My father did not help him.
Then Blake looked at me.
“And what does Ethan get?”
“Nothing,” I said.
He laughed.
“Nobody does this for nothing.”
“I’m paid by Ardent.”
“That’s cute.”
“Blake.”
“You walk into my boardroom after five years, put a folder in front of me, tell everybody I’ve wrecked the company, and I’m supposed to believe this is professional?”
I held his gaze.
“No.”
That stopped him.
“I don’t expect you to believe that.”
The room went quiet.
“Part of me wanted to see you fail.”
His face changed.
“I wanted that before I opened the numbers.”
My father shifted.
I kept my eyes on Blake.
“Then I saw eight thousand employees attached to your mistakes.”
Blake looked away.
“And customers.”
I tapped the folder.
“And subcontractors who will get crushed if this company runs out of cash.”
His mouth tightened.
“So now you’re saving us.”
“No.”
I pushed the folder back toward him.
“You’re going to decide whether you’re worth saving.”
Blake looked down at the folder as if it had insulted him personally.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he pulled the pages closer.
“What happens if I say no?”
Evelyn answered.
“Ardent walks.”
“And the bank?”
“That is between Mercer Mechanical and its lenders.”
“You know exactly what happens.”
“I know what may happen.”
Blake looked at Thomas.
“Covenants?”
Thomas nodded once.
“Liquidity ratios are already tight.”
My father shifted in his chair.
“How tight?”
Thomas opened a binder.
“Tight enough that one significant project deterioration could trigger restrictions.”
Blake rubbed both hands over his face.
“You people make money by finding frightened companies and telling them they’re dying.”
Evelyn did not blink.
“We make money when companies survive.”
“Same difference.”
“No.”
Her voice stayed flat.
“It really isn’t.”
My father picked up page seventeen.
His hand trembled more when he turned it than when he held the cane.
“What is the timeline?”
“For the investment?” Evelyn asked.
“For the cash problem.”
I answered.
“If collections improve and no major job worsens, months.”
“And if they do?”
“Less.”
My father looked at me.
“How much less?”
“We modeled scenarios.”
“Give me the worst.”
“Six to eight weeks before liquidity becomes operationally dangerous.”
Blake snapped his head toward me.
“That model is garbage.”
“It’s conservative.”
“It assumes the Riverside claim doesn’t settle.”
“Because it hasn’t settled.”
“Our attorneys think—”
“Attorneys don’t make payroll.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
Blake’s eyes flashed.
Then he looked down.
Something in him seemed to fold inward.
“Payroll.”
He said it quietly.
“Yes.”
May you like
He stared at the table.
“Our field payroll is what, eleven million every two weeks?”
