“Do not approach Mrs.
Hayes.”
Grant looked around the ballroom, searching for someone who would still recognize his authority.
His eyes settled on our chief financial officer, Martin Vale.
“Tell them,” Grant said.
“Tell them every major expense was reviewed.”
Martin remained seated for several seconds.
Then he stood.
“I reviewed summaries prepared by your office,” he said.
“Not the underlying invoices.”
“You approved them.”
“I approved reports containing altered vendor codes.”
Grant’s voice sharpened.
“Be careful.”
Martin looked toward the security officers, then back at Grant.
“I have spent the last four hours being careful.”
He raised a flash drive.
“I gave the audit committee the original ledger.”
Grant went still.
The silence that followed was different from the silence when Sloane first entered wearing my badge.
That earlier silence had been cowardice and discomfort.
This one was recognition.
Everyone in the room could see the structure collapsing around him.
Daniel connected Martin’s drive to the presentation system.
The original ledger showed that North Star Creative was only one piece of the scheme.
Payments had been divided among four vendors.
Two were controlled by associates of Grant.
One shared a mailing address with a private investment company he had created without disclosing it to the board.
The fourth account had no obvious owner.
It was the account Sloane had mentioned.
“Tell them,” I said to her.
Sloane looked at Grant before answering.
“He called it Harbor.”
Grant folded his arms.
“She is lying to protect herself.”
Sloane’s voice shook.
“He kept a second phone in the safe at the apartment.”
A ripple moved through the front row.
The apartment was not a hotel suite or a weekend rental.
It was a corporate-owned residence used for visiting executives.
Grant had reassigned it to Sloane without approval.
“He told me Harbor was for a management buyout,”
she continued.
“He said investors were backing him.
He said once Evelyn signed over the voting shares, the board would have no choice.”
“I never said that.”
“You said she would be too busy burying her father to notice.”
Grant’s face emptied.
The cruelty of the sentence silenced even the remote rooms.
My father was still alive, but only barely.
That morning, I had sat beside him while a nurse adjusted his medication.
He had asked whether I was going to the retreat.
“I have to,” I told him.
“Then stand straight,” he whispered.
I had promised him I would.
