Chapter 3

Evelyn Shaw's office had no inspirational quotations and no photographs of her shaking hands with famous people.

There were books, two comfortable chairs, and a box of tissues placed within reach without being offered.

"What do you want?" she asked.

I had prepared a history. Ten years. Eight months. My sister. The restaurant. Instead, the question opened a hole beneath all of it.

"I want not to be stupid again."

Evelyn set down her pen.

"Trusting your husband wasn't stupidity. Signing something without independent advice would be a mistake we can avoid from today onward."

She read the trust amendment first. Then the original proxy agreement. Then my father's letter, twice.

"Your beneficial ownership and voting authority are separate," she said. "The existing proxy expires Friday unless renewed. The proposed amendment would give him another ten years and broaden what he can approve without asking you."

"Can I refuse?"

"Yes. Refusing does not automatically give you control of the company. It returns the rights specified in the existing documents. We need the full trust instrument and shareholder agreement."

I liked that she didn't turn twenty-two percent into a miracle.

We discussed the house, our personal accounts, and the prenuptial agreement. My inherited shares were identified as separate property. Other assets would require tracing. She warned me not to empty accounts, destroy messages, or access anything I wasn't authorized to access.

"Anger is useful," she said. "It is not a filing system."

For the first time since the restaurant, I smiled.

She referred the company issues to her colleague, Tomas Reed, a corporate lawyer with a soft voice and the unnerving habit of noticing missing pages before anyone else noticed there were page numbers.

Before he joined us, Evelyn asked whether I had eaten. I admitted I hadn't. She sent for a sandwich and waited while I finished half of it. I had expected armor from a lawyer. Practical kindness made it easier to put the armor on.

By noon, they had sent requests for the governing documents and a preservation notice covering relevant financial records. Evelyn separately notified Adrian's lawyer that future divorce discussions should go through counsel.

At twelve seventeen, Adrian called me six times.

At twelve twenty-six, Sloane texted.

Can we please talk as sisters before lawyers ruin everything?

I showed Evelyn.

"You don't have to answer," she said.

That permission felt indecently luxurious.

While Tomas reviewed the acquisition papers, I studied a framed photograph on Evelyn's shelf. Two children on a beach, their faces blurred by motion. A life outside other people's emergencies.

"Did you know your father challenged the Harbor valuation?" Tomas asked.

I turned back.

Harbor House was our second hotel, the one built from Dad's old waterfront warehouse. His supposed objections had been described to me as confusion, the effect of pain medication and stress.

"I was told he misunderstood the transaction."

"Perhaps. These papers don't establish misconduct. But he asked sensible questions about a consultancy payment and an adjustment to his equity calculation."

"What consultancy?"

"Ashdown Advisory. Do you recognize it?"

I didn't.

Tomas wrote the name on a fresh sheet.

"We'll follow the documents. We won't build conclusions around what we hope to find."

Hope wasn't the word I would have chosen. I wanted to find nothing. I wanted the affair to be the only rotten part, something I could cut away without discovering the whole house had been built on it.

My phone vibrated again.

This time it was a photograph from an unfamiliar number. Adrian and Sloane leaving the hotel the previous night. His jacket around her shoulders. Her head turned toward him.

Below it: A reporter is asking for comment. Call me. Lena, Vale House Communications.

I used to approve every significant statement Lena drafted. After I left operations, Adrian had quietly removed me from those messages.

Now they needed my name again.

The proposed statement arrived a minute later.

Claire and Adrian have been amicably separated for some time and remain committed to the Vale House family.

I read it aloud.

Evelyn watched me carefully.

"Is it true?"

"No."

"Then you don't authorize it."

Such a simple sentence. Such an unfamiliar way to live.

We sent a response stating that I had not approved the language and that it misrepresented the timing of our separation. No accusations. No photograph. No performance of pain for strangers.

As I stood to leave, Tomas asked whether I knew Owen Price.

"Dad's letter mentions him."

"He was the group's controller until eighteen months ago."

I remembered a quiet man who wore shirts his wife ironed too sharply. At his farewell dinner, Adrian said Owen was leaving to spend time with his grandchildren.

"Do we know where he is?"

"We can ask him whether he's willing to speak."

Outside, the city was bright after rain. I called Mara and told her I had done something useful.

Then I looked at the time.

Seventy-one hours until the proxy expired.

For once, I was looking forward to a deadline.