One trustee, Eleanor Price, agreed to meet privately.
She was a stern woman in her sixties who had known our father for decades. When she arrived at the safe location, she looked at me as though she were seeing a ghost.
“Rosalind?”
I stood.
“I’m alive.”
She pressed a hand to her chest, then embraced me so tightly that I nearly cried.
After she heard the full account, her face became hard.
“Your father warned me about Richard Whitmore,” she said. “He believed the Whitmores were trying to force the company into financial distress so they could acquire its assets at a fraction of their value.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because your father asked me not to act until he had secured the original records. He believed someone on the board was leaking information.”
She turned toward Tobias.
“Did you find them?”
“Not yet.”
Eleanor looked at the photograph from our father’s study.
