Clara, my older sister, sat at the kitchen table while the tea kettle whistled its low, steady tune. She poured the hot water into two mismatched ceramic mugs, the steam rising between us.
I sat in the mahogany chair, my fingers still wrapped around a cold, dry dishcloth.
“He has been preparing for this for a long time, Clara,” I said.
“He has been clearing the tracks,” Clara said, setting the kettle down with a sharp clink. “Have you looked in the home office since yesterday?”
“I had no reason to.”
“Go look now,” she said.
I walked down the short hallway to the small room where we kept our tax records and family files. The metal filing cabinet in the corner was unlocked.
The blue hanging folders that used to hold our household ledger and the early corporate tax returns were completely empty.
I walked back into the kitchen and sat down.
“They are gone,” I said. “Every paper from the first three years of Hollis Transit.”
“He wants to make it look like you were never there,” Clara said, leaning forward. “He wants to make you invisible.”
“He cannot do that,” I said. “We both know who built this company.”
“He has the company checkbook and the lawyers,” Clara said, pouring a splash of milk into her tea. “You need to find those original incorporation papers, the ones from twelve years ago.”
I did not tell her that those papers were not in the house, or that they bore my maiden name, a detail Adrian had surely forgotten.
I held my warm mug, watching the steam disappear into the kitchen air.
“He thinks I have no way to prove my share,” I said.
“Adrian always underestimates the quiet ones,” Clara said, her voice dropping. “But he has Russell Crane, and Crane does not lose.”
“Every lock has a key,” I said.
