PART 3
Harold looked directly at me.
“Because you own more of Merritt than Richard thinks you do.”
For a few seconds, I said nothing.
The room seemed strangely quiet.
I turned another page.
There it was.
A list of shareholders.
My name.
Beside it was a percentage.
I already knew the number.
But seeing it printed there made everything feel different.
“Richard doesn’t know?” I asked.
“He knows there are outside investors,” Harold said. “He doesn’t know the largest individual position is yours.”
I gave a small laugh.
“So all these years, he’s been telling me how successful he is while I’ve been one of the people financing that success.”
Harold nodded.
“More importantly, Lucas, there’s something else.”
He opened the second folder.
“This is why I asked you to come in immediately.”
I looked at the document.
It was a proposed acquisition agreement.
Merritt was preparing to purchase another company.
But something about the paperwork bothered me.
I read the buyer’s name.
Then the seller’s.
Then I looked at Harold.
“This company is owned by Richard’s brother.”
“Correct.”
“So Richard is using Merritt’s money to buy an asset from his own family?”
“That’s what the documents indicate.”
I leaned back.
“How much?”
Harold gave me the number.
I stared at him.
“That’s almost double what the company is worth.”
“Yes.”
I slowly closed the folder.
The Thanksgiving dinner suddenly seemed very far away.
The expensive wine.
The catered food.
The people Richard wanted to impress.
The way Victoria had told me I didn’t belong.
The way Daniel had looked at his plate.
I understood something now.
They hadn’t been embarrassed because I was poor.
They were embarrassed because they thought I was insignificant.
There was a difference.
Harold watched me carefully.
“What are you going to do?”
I looked out the window.
People were walking along the sidewalk carrying coffee, talking on phones, rushing to meetings.
Everyone seemed to have somewhere important to be.
I remembered Ruth.
She had always told me that money was useful, but knowing when to use it mattered more.
“Nothing,” I said.
Harold raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing?”
“Not yet.”
I stood.
“I want every document reviewed.”
“All of them?”
“Every transfer. Every loan. Every related-party transaction. Every signature.”
Harold nodded.
“And Daniel?”
I stopped at the door.
“What about him?”
“His name appears in several of the documents.”
I turned around.
“What kind of documents?”
Harold hesitated.
“Employment agreements. Bonus structures. A future equity arrangement.”
My jaw tightened.
“Is he involved?”
“That depends on what you mean by involved.”
“Did he know?”
Harold looked down at the folder.
“I don’t know.”
I walked back to the desk.
“Find out.”
He nodded.
“And Harold?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t contact Richard.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t contact Daniel.”
Another nod.
“Not yet.”
I left his office and drove home.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like calling my son.
I didn’t feel like explaining myself.
I didn’t feel like asking why he had allowed his wife’s parents to humiliate me.
Instead, I went into my garage.
My old truck was parked exactly where I had left it.
I ran my hand across the hood.
The paint was faded.
There was a small dent near the rear bumper.
It wasn’t impressive.
Neither was I, apparently.
But it had never failed to start when I needed it.
I smiled.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel.
I let it ring.
A voicemail arrived.
Then another.
Then another.
Finally, I answered.
“Dad?”
His voice sounded different.
Not angry.
Not embarrassed.
Afraid.
“What happened?” I asked.
He took a breath.
“Can you come over?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Dad, please.”
“You said your in-laws make the rules.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded pretty clear yesterday.”
“I was put on the spot.”
“You were sitting at the table.”
“I know.”
“You could have stood up.”
“I know.”
I waited.
Then he said quietly:
“Dad, something happened after you left.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
“What?”
“They found out.”
“Found out what?”
He lowered his voice.
“I don’t know how, but someone discovered that you’re connected to Merritt.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Who told you that?”
“Richard.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me how much you knew.”
I said nothing.
Daniel continued.
“Dad, what does he mean?”
I looked through the garage window at the street.
“Daniel, what exactly did Richard ask you?”
“He asked if you had ever talked to me about the company.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him no.”
I closed my eyes.
“Good.”
“Dad…”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait!”
I paused.
“I’m sorry.”
Those two words almost hurt more than everything else.
Because they were the words I had wanted to hear yesterday.
But they were arriving after the calls.
After the panic.
After Richard had apparently realized something.
I said nothing.
Daniel spoke again.
