For the first time, Christina looked confused rather than smug.
“Shell companies?” she asked.
Anthony turned on her so quickly that she stepped back.
“Stay out of this.”
The command was quiet, but everyone heard it.
Leonard moved between Anthony and the elevators.
“Company property,” he said.
Anthony stared at him.
Leonard had worked security for Prescott Holdings longer than Anthony had known me.
He had watched me visit the office as a child, carrying coloring books into my father’s meetings.
He had attended my mother’s funeral.
When Anthony arrived, Leonard treated him with the respect due to my husband.
Anthony had mistaken professionalism for submission.
“You know who I am,” Anthony said.
“Yes,” Leonard replied.
“That’s why I need the badge.”
A few employees looked down to hide their reactions.
Anthony pulled the badge from his belt and threw it onto the reception desk.
It skidded across the marble and stopped against the folder.
“There,” he said.
“Enjoy your little performance.”
He reached for the security gate.
Leonard did not move.
“The phone, laptop, card, and keys.”
Anthony’s jaw flexed.
“This equipment contains privileged executive information.”
“It contains company information,” Arthur said.
Catherine stepped in again.
“You will speak to my son with respect.”
Arthur looked at her.
“Mrs.
Miller, your consulting contract was terminated at 1:45.
Your access to this building ended at 1:46.
You are currently refusing a security instruction in a private lobby.”
Her face hardened.
“I am not a consultant.
I built the procurement network that keeps this place alive.”
Dad nodded toward the folder.
“That network is why legal is upstairs.”
The elevator doors opened behind him.
Two members of the company’s legal team emerged carrying sealed document boxes.
They did not speak.
They did not need to.
The labels were turned inward, unreadable from the lobby, but Anthony watched the boxes pass as if he knew exactly what they contained.
His right hand moved toward his jacket pocket.
I remembered my father’s words: They were leaving fingerprints.
“Give Leonard the phone,” I said.
Anthony looked at me with an expression I knew well.
It was the look he used during our marriage whenever he wanted me to doubt my own memory.
“Eleanor, you’re emotional.”
“No,” I said.
“I was emotional when I defended you.
This is documentation.”
He smiled without warmth.
“You think your father is protecting you? He’s using you to clean up his company.
When this fails, he’ll blame you.”
