We found the second account. It is worse than we thought.
I stopped walking. For the first time that day, my hands began to shake.
Margaret waited for me in the underground parking garage, seated inside a modest gray sedan that looked almost comically ordinary beside the executives' luxury cars.
She unlocked the passenger door before I reached it.
“Tell me,” I said as I climbed inside.
She handed me a printed statement. The second account belonged to a holding company called Alder Meridian. Over two years, it had received funds through three intermediary vendors. The amounts were smaller than the Northbridge transfers, but their timing was more disturbing.
“Look at the dates,” Margaret said.
I traced the entries with one finger. Each transfer followed a major equipment purchase. The vendors had charged Hartwell above-market prices, then sent a portion of their proceeds to Alder Meridian.
“Kickbacks?” I asked.
“Potentially. Our forensic accountant is still verifying the underlying contracts.”
I appreciated her precision. Margaret had been my father's friend long before she became a director. She never confused suspicion with proof, not even when the truth seemed obvious.
“Who owns Alder Meridian?”
“We don't have a verified answer yet. But we have an authorized signatory.”
She turned the page.
Vanessa Cole.
The garage seemed to grow colder.
Vanessa had joined Hartwell four years earlier as Julian's executive assistant. She wore expensive perfume, corrected employees in public, and addressed me with the exaggerated politeness people use when they wish to be cruel without witnesses. I had disliked her arrogance, but I had never imagined she could be moving money.
“Julian gave her access?” I asked.
“Access, certainly. Whether he knew about every transaction remains an open question.”
I studied a photograph of the authorization card. Vanessa's signature was unmistakable.
Margaret then showed me a second document: a proposal to sell Hartwell's most profitable manufacturing division to a private investment group. The valuation was suspiciously low. The board had not approved the sale, yet preparatory documents already carried Julian's initials.
“Why would he sell our strongest division?”
“Because the buyer's ownership is hidden behind several entities. We need to establish who benefits.”
I thought of my father walking through that factory in a blue safety helmet, greeting machinists by name. He had built Hartwell through decades of small decisions, not one spectacular gamble. Selling the division cheaply would betray every employee who trusted us.
“We stop it,” I said.
“We can seek an immediate hold on any unauthorized transaction. But tomorrow's meeting will be contested.”
“Julian thinks I am powerless.”
Margaret looked at me over her glasses. “Then let him keep thinking it until the vote.”
I had inherited my father's shares through a family trust. Julian knew about the trust, but he believed most of its voting rights had been dispersed among relatives and charitable vehicles. In fact, my father had consolidated them before his death, placing the controlling interest under my beneficial ownership, with safeguards that kept the arrangement confidential until I chose to exercise it.
Sixty-four percent.
Enough to change the company. Not enough to undo what had already happened.
Before leaving, Margaret gave me one final warning.
“Someone accessed the audit archive this afternoon using your credentials.”
I stared at her.
“I haven't logged into that system in months.”