The page for the Apex Development headquarters on Elm Street was dated October twelfth, nineteen ninety-seven. My father’s handwriting was neat, his ledger numbers drafted with the clean, upright strokes of a surveyor. But beneath his signature, in the registration section, was an amendment dated exactly five years ago.
“The registration shows the voting distribution,” I said, pointing to the column marked Schedule C.
“It does,” Martha said. She leaned closer, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose. “According to this, the original trust transfer was never dissolved. Sixty percent of the active voting shares are still registered under the estate trust.”
My finger remained on the entry, noting the specific certificate number, seven-four-two. “And the beneficiary of that trust is the sole executor.”
“That would be you, Nora,” Martha said softly, her eyes darting toward the frosted glass of the office door. “But those certificates have to be in someone’s physical possession to be voted. Do you know where they are?”
