Grant stared.
“No.”
She waited.
He picked it up.
Read page one.
Then page two.
His face changed.
“What the hell is this?”
I watched carefully.
Not the words.
His eyes.
Hands.
Breathing.
Shock appeared real.
Miriam asked:
“Did you ask Paige to prepare a founder-control transfer?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss increasing her company’s equity?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss your mother reducing voting rights?”
“We’ve discussed succession.”
“With Paige?”
“Yes.”
“How specifically?”
Grant looked at me.
I held his gaze.
“Answer her.”
He swallowed.
“I told Paige Mom eventually wanted me to lead the company.”
“Did your mother say she would transfer control this year?”
“No.”
“Did she say Paige’s consulting company would receive shares?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Paige you expected significant voting control after a restructuring?”
Grant hesitated.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Not conspiracy.
Careless expectation.
“What exactly did you say?”
He closed his eyes.
“I said Mom was ready to step back.”
I stared.
“I never said that.”
“I know.”
“You told your wife I was ready to step back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked miserable.
“Because I thought you were.”
“Based on what?”
“You travel more.”
“You leave more meetings to me.”
“You said you were tired of quarterly operations.”
“That is not surrendering thirty-two percent voting control.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Miriam stepped in before this became mother and son.
“Grant, did Paige know Marian retained fifty-two percent voting control?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know no transfer had been approved?”
“Yes.”
“Did she have authority to prepare a draft?”
“No.”
“Could she have believed discussions with you constituted informal direction?”
Grant looked down.
“Maybe.”
Important.
Not innocence.
Not proof.
Ambiguity.
