He opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of our father shaking hands with a younger man outside the shipyard. Beside them stood another man I recognized immediately.
Garrett’s father, Richard Whitmore.
On the back, Dad had written a date and six words.
If anything happens, find the original ledger.
“What ledger?” I asked.
“The records that show who stole our parents’ company.”
I shook my head. “The shipyard belongs to us. It always has.”
“On paper, yes. But the trust agreement contains a clause that can transfer voting control if the majority shareholder is declared medically incapacitated or dies without a qualified successor. Garrett married you, isolated you, and made himself your closest adviser. He wanted you to sign a series of documents giving him authority over your shares.”
I remembered the papers Garrett had placed before me over the past year.
Routine authorizations, he had called them. Temporary permissions. Administrative forms.
