Chương 7
“How old?”
“Some eight or nine years.”
“Any current renovation documents?”
“No.”
The certainty came quickly.
“How do you know?”
“Because those are active records.”
“Where were the boxes staged?”
“In the basement records room.”
“Not the loading dock?”
“No.”
I zoomed in on the image.
Grant’s boxes had white archive labels on the sides.
I could not read the handwriting.
“Did Grant ever ask to add boxes to the pickup?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
His frustration sharpened.
“He asked me last week whether we could include duplicate project files because finance was clearing cabinets.”
“Which project?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And you approved it.”
“Yes.”
“Without looking.”
“Yes.”
There was no defense in the word.
That somehow made it worse.
“Dad, someone photographed Grant taking three boxes out through the loading dock last night.”
The line went still.
“When?”
“Eight fifty-six.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“He was in the ballroom.”
“Lorraine says he came over after I left, then left a few minutes later.”
“No, I mean he couldn’t take records out that way without security.”
“He had help.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Dad breathed heavily through his nose.
“Send me the picture.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“Elliot told me not to circulate it.”
“I’m the CEO.”
“And potentially a witness.”
The words hurt him.
I heard it.
“So that’s where we are.”
“I don’t know where we are.”
“Apparently I’m under investigation by my daughter.”
“You signed a false change order.”
He went quiet.
There it was.
I had not meant to confront him on the phone.
Anger had done it for me.
“How do you know about that?”
“Lorraine.”
Another silence.
Then, “Of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“She never trusted Grant.”
“Maybe she had a reason.”
“She sent me those invoices two months ago.”
“I know.”
“She treated an administrative irregularity like a conspiracy.”
“Eight hundred forty thousand dollars is administrative?”
“The work was documented.”
“By whom?”
“Grant.”
I laughed once.
Dad’s voice hardened.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make me sound stupid.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m asking why you signed a document saying I approved a loan when I didn’t.”
“I didn’t know you hadn’t.”
“You never asked me.”
“Grant showed me an approval summary.”
“A summary?”
“Yes.”
“Not my consent.”
“No.”
“Not an email from me.”
“No.”
“Not a call.”
“No.”
“Then why did you sign?”
Dad breathed out.
“Because I trusted him.”
There was anger in the admission, but not at me.
“Why?”
“Because Celeste asked me to.”
That was smaller than any explanation I had imagined.
Almost pathetic.
He continued before I could respond.
“She said Grant needed a real role in the company if we were ever going to function like a family.”
“And you gave him finance.”
“Not at first.”
“What did you give him?”
“Development.”
“He had a financial interest in Northline.”
“He told me he divested.”
“Did you verify it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was tired of every dinner becoming a trial.”
The sentence sat between us.
I did not know whether to be furious or sad.
He kept going.
“Every time I questioned Grant, Celeste heard it as rejecting her son.”
“So you stopped questioning him.”
“Not entirely.”
“Enough.”
“Yes.”
The honesty stripped the fight out of me for a moment.
Dad sounded old again.
Not weak.
Just worn down by choices he had made repeatedly because each one was easier than the argument it prevented.
“I thought I could watch him,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Mom would have.”
I regretted it instantly.
Dad went silent.
“That was cruel,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Another pause.
“Your mother would have fired him the first week.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
Dad did too.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then he said, “Mara, I need to tell you something before the board meeting.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“The renovation loan was not the first time Grant used your approval.”
The apartment went quiet around me.
“What else?”
“A vendor guarantee last year.”
“For Northline?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Dad hesitated.
“Meridian Procurement Services.”
My fingers went cold.
“You said you controlled that company.”
“I believed I did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Grant created a second operating agreement.”
“A second one?”
“With me listed as managing member.”
“Were you?”
“On paper.”
“And in reality?”
“He had banking authority.”
“How?”
“I signed it.”
I closed my eyes.
“Dad.”
“I thought it was for purchasing efficiency.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
I almost shouted.
“Stop saying that.”
“I don’t.”
“How much exposure?”
“The guarantee was capped at three million.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
“Three million dollars?”
“It was supposed to support bulk procurement.”
“Using whose assets?”
“The hotel’s receivables.”
“Did it require my consent?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
There it was again.
“Did you see my consent?”
“No.”
“Did you sign something saying you had?”
“Yes.”
My anger returned so fast it made my hands shake.
“Then you knew.”
“I knew paperwork said you had approved it.”
“That is knowing.”
“No, Mara.”
“Yes.”
“I did not know your signature was being forged.”
“You knew I had never spoken to you about it.”
“I assumed Grant handled it.”
“You assumed my consent could be handled by Grant?”
“I was wrong.”
“That is not big enough.”
“I know.”
The words came out broken this time.
Not dramatic.
Just tired.
My phone buzzed with Victor calling.
“I have to go.”
“Mara.”
“What?”
“I’m not asking you to protect me.”
I waited.
“If the records show I failed my duties, do what you have to do.”
I almost said something sharp.
Instead I answered Victor.
“Tell me.”
“Marcos is still here.”
“Good.”
“He says he didn’t help Grant.”
“Did you show him the photo?”
“No.”
“Then how did he know what you were asking about?”
Victor went quiet.
My pulse picked up.
“He asked whether this was about Grant moving boxes.”
“Before you mentioned boxes?”
“Yes.”
“Keep him there.”
“I’m trying.”
“Trying?”
“He wants to leave.”
May you like
“Why?”
“He says his wife is waiting.”
