Chapter 2 - The Deal Grant Made With a Dead Man
I drove straight to Rebecca’s office.
My mother came with me.
Neither of us spoke during the twenty-minute drive.
I didn’t trust myself to.
Rebecca Sloan was waiting in the conference room with three monitors turned on and enough paperwork spread across the table to make my head hurt.
She looked at my cheek first.
“We preserved the jewelry-store footage.”
“Good.”
“Two cameras captured both strikes.”
Mom inhaled sharply.
I ignored her.
“What about the proxy?”
Rebecca slid it toward me.
The signature at the bottom read:
Jonathan David Mercer.
I knew that signature.
I had Christmas cards tucked away in an old box with the same sweeping J.
Same narrow M.
Same strange way my father looped the final R.
“It could be forged.”
Rebecca nodded.
“It could.”
Mom picked it up.
“It isn’t.”
We both looked at her.
She touched the signature.
“I watched Jonathan sign his name for fifteen years.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does the proxy give Grant?”
Rebecca answered.
“Temporary voting authority over shares still legally attributed to Jonathan.”
“How many?”
“Eighteen point four percent.”
I stared at her.
Grant had been trying to take my 31.8 percent.
Add Jonathan’s 18.4.
More than fifty percent.
“He wanted control.”
“Yes.”
“Before Friday.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rebecca opened another file.
“Because the birthday transfer creates a problem.”
“For Grant?”
“For whoever controls Jonathan’s shares.”
She explained it slowly.
My grandfather’s trust had a hidden provision.
If Jonathan was legally dead when I turned twenty-nine, the remaining Mercer voting block transferred to me.
But if credible proof emerged that Jonathan was alive before that date, ownership became disputed and the shares would freeze while the trust underwent review.
“Meaning nobody could vote them?”
“Correct.”
“But Grant already has Dad’s proxy.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until Friday at midnight.”
I understood.
Grant had a temporary window.
If he controlled my shares too, he could force through a board resolution before the trust froze.
“What resolution?”
Rebecca looked at Mom.
Mom looked back at her.
Neither spoke.
I slammed my palm onto the table.
“Stop doing that.”
Rebecca frowned.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at each other like there’s another secret I’m too fragile to hear.”
Mom closed her eyes.
Rebecca turned a document toward me.
PROPOSED SALE OF MERCER LEGACY ASSETS.
Buyer:
AURELIAN CAPITAL SA.
Purchase price:
$412 million.
My eyes widened.
“What are Mercer Legacy Assets?”
Mom answered.
“Your grandfather’s original holdings.”
“Jewelry?”
“Some.”
“What else?”
“Land.”
“Patents.”
“Private equity.”
She hesitated.
“And the Aurora Collection.”
I had heard that name.
Every Mercer had.
The Aurora Collection was a group of rare stones and antique pieces my grandfather acquired over decades.
Not store inventory.
Museum-grade jewelry.
Grant had obsessed over it since we married.
“They’re selling the collection?”
“Not just the collection.”
Rebecca pointed lower.
“The transaction transfers ownership of the entire legacy entity.”
“To Aurelian.”
“Yes.”
“Who owns Aurelian?”
“We don’t know.”
I laughed once.
“Let me guess.”
“We’re working on it.”
I looked at my mother.
“Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
I believed she meant it.
For the first time.
Then Rebecca pulled up a bank record.
Three months earlier, Whitmore Holdings had paid for Jonathan’s flight from Zurich.
Two days later, Grant received an eight-million-dollar credit line from an Aurelian affiliate.
The collateral?
Grant’s future voting interest in Mercer Legacy.
My husband had already borrowed money against assets he did not own.
“He needed my shares because he owes them.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Grant may have promised control he doesn’t legally possess.”
“And if he doesn’t deliver?”
“We don’t know.”
That sounded more frightening than any answer.
I picked up my phone.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Calling my husband.”
Rebecca stopped me.
“No.”
“I’m not warning him.”
“What are you planning?”
“I’m going to let him think the jewelry-store stunt worked.”
Mom stared.
“He hit you.”
“Yes.”
“He may do worse.”
“Then I won’t meet him alone.”
I called Grant.
He answered before the second ring.
“Claire.”
His voice was desperate.
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“We need to talk.”
“You had your chance.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Which one?”
Silence.
“The affair?”
I continued.
“The forged signature?”
More silence.
“Or doing business with my dead father?”
Grant stopped breathing.
That silence was the loudest confession I had heard all week.
“Claire.”
His voice dropped.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Is he alive?”
“I can explain.”
“Is my father alive?”
“Yes.”
One word.
Eighteen years of grief erased by one word.
I closed my eyes.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
“I swear.”
“You bought his plane ticket.”
“I didn’t arrange the meeting.”
“Vivienne?”
Grant said nothing.
There she was again.
“What does she want?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
That sounded strangely real.
I glanced at Rebecca.
She began recording the call through our legal setup.
Grant continued.
“Claire, Vivienne came to me nine months ago.”
“Nine months?”
“She said your family had been lying to you.”
“And you believed her?”
“She showed me documents.”
“What documents?”
“Your trust.”
“And your solution was to sleep with her?”
His voice cracked.
“That happened later.”
I almost admired the stupidity of the answer.
“What did she ask you to do?”
“Help bring Jonathan back.”
“Why?”
“She said he could stop the trust from transferring.”
“And you wanted that.”
“I was trying to protect Whitmore.”
“From your wife?”
“You don’t understand the company’s debt.”
“There it is.”
Grant became quiet.
“How much?”
He didn’t answer.
“How much debt, Grant?”
“Seventy-six million.”
My breath caught.
Whitmore Holdings had looked profitable.
Its stores were full.
Its financial statements showed manageable debt.
“You hid seventy-six million dollars?”
“I was expanding.”
“You were gambling.”
“I could fix it.”
“With my inheritance.”
“I was going to replace everything.”
The classic language of someone who had already stolen it.
“What happens Friday?”
Grant whispered:
“The Aurelian deal closes.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“I lose the company.”
That explained his knees.
Not love.
Not remorse.
Survival.
“And who owns Aurelian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Grant.”
“I swear.”
I looked at Mom.
She suddenly stood.
Her face had changed.
She walked toward the window.
Then she whispered:
“Claire.”
I covered the phone.
“What?”
She pointed outside.
A black sedan was parked across the street.
Same spot.
Engine running.
Tinted windows.
Grant spoke through the phone.
“Claire?”
Mom’s voice became barely audible.
“That car followed us from my house.”
My skin went cold.
Grant heard enough.
“What car?”
Before I could answer, the sedan pulled away.
Rebecca moved toward the window.
I returned to the phone.
“Grant.”
“Yes?”
“Does Jonathan know where Mom lives?”
A long pause.
“Yes.”
May you like
Then my mother whispered:
“He shouldn’t.”
