Chapter 7: The Quarter of the Company They Hid From Me
Twenty-five percent.
The number sat in the middle of the dining room like a loaded weapon.
I looked at Grandpa.
Then Dad.
Then Mom.
Nobody seemed willing to move.
Finally, I asked the only question that mattered.
"How long have you known?""
Grandpa swallowed.
"That Eleanor left you the shares?""
"Yes.""
"Since she died.""
Seventeen years old.
I had been seventeen years old when Grandma died.
Eight years before I started college.
Twelve years before I graduated.
All those years, Grandpa had known.
My voice came out strangely calm.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because the shares were placed in trust until you turned twenty-five.""
"I'm twenty-nine.""
"I know.""
"That doesn't answer my question.""
Grandpa looked down.
"The original plan was for David to act as trustee. After Eleanor died, there were changes to the paperwork. I believed they were administrative.""
Mom stared at the table.
Grandpa continued.
"I didn't understand what had happened until two years ago.""
"You keep saying that.""
"I know.""
"Two years ago, I was twenty-seven.""
"Yes.""
"You had my phone number.""
His face tightened.
"Yes.""
"You knew where I lived.""
"Yes.""
"You knew I was working full-time and paying tuition.""
"Yes.""
I leaned back.
"So explain it.""
He rubbed a hand over his jaw.
"I found inconsistencies in the shareholder ledger. Your name had been removed from one internal record and replaced with a trust designation.""
"What designation?""
"The Holloway Family Continuity Trust.""
The same trust Mom and Trevor had tried to use to control Grandpa's voting rights.
My stomach twisted.
"They were moving my shares too.""
"That's what I believe.""
"Believe?""
"I couldn't prove it.""
"So you said nothing.""
"I hired an attorney privately.""
"Still nothing.""
"I began reconstructing the records.""
"Still nothing.""
Grandpa closed his eyes.
"I made the wrong decision.""
The admission didn't make me feel better.
I looked at Dad.
"And you?""
He shook his head immediately.
"I didn't know.""
Mom laughed bitterly.
Everyone turned toward her.
Dad's face hardened.
"What's funny?""
"You didn't want to know.""
"What does that mean?""
"It means Walter talked about Paige's shares years ago.""
Dad stared at her.
"When?""
"After Eleanor's funeral.""
Grandpa frowned.
"I spoke to you about the trust.""
Dad looked between them.
"I remember you saying Eleanor had made provisions for both kids.""
"You never asked what provisions.""
Dad's face went blank.
Mom continued.
"Because you assumed Trevor would inherit the company.""
Dad snapped, "So did you.""
"Yes.""
"Then don't pretend this is my fault.""
"I didn't say it was only yours.""
I watched them.
For years, I'd imagined that one day my parents would finally understand what they'd done to me.
In my fantasy, there was satisfaction.
Vindication.
Maybe even triumph.
The reality felt empty.
They were so busy dividing blame that neither of them seemed capable of carrying any.
Daniel finally spoke.
"Paige, I strongly recommend you retain independent counsel.""
I looked at him.
"Because you represent Grandpa.""
"And company interests related to his ownership position. Your interests may overlap, but they're not identical.""
Dad looked alarmed.
"She needs a lawyer against us?""
Daniel answered before I could.
"She needs a lawyer for herself.""
That sentence felt unfamiliar.
For herself.
Not for the family.
Not for Trevor.
Not to fix something.
For me.
"Okay.""
Mom looked up.
"Paige, before you do anything—"
"No.""
"I only want—"
"No.""
Her mouth closed.
I stood.
"I am done making decisions in rooms where everybody knows more about my life than I do.""
Grandpa looked wounded.
I didn't care.
Not then.
I picked up my purse.
Dad stood.
"Where are you going?""
"Home.""
"Paige, this is your company too.""
I turned.
"No. Right now it's a company people have apparently been using my name to steal from.""
I looked at Grandpa.
"Don't call me tonight.""
Then at Dad.
"You either.""
Finally Mom.
She couldn't meet my eyes.
I left.
The next morning, Professor Hart gave me the name of an attorney.
Rebecca Sloan.
"She's terrifying," Professor Hart said.
"That's your recommendation?""
"Highest possible.""
Rebecca's office occupied the seventeenth floor of a downtown building overlooking the river.
She was fifty-something, silver-streaked hair, navy suit, no wasted words.
I told her everything.
She didn't interrupt.
When I finished, she asked one question.
"Do you want revenge?""
I blinked.
"No.""
"Good.""
"Why?""
"Because revenge is expensive and usually stupid.""
I almost smiled.
"What do you recommend?""
"I recommend facts.""
She opened a legal pad.
"First, we establish whether you legally own twenty-five percent of Holloway Home Supply.""
"Grandpa says I do.""
"Grandfathers are not registries.""
Fair.
"Second, we determine whether your trust was misappropriated.""
I nodded.
"Third, we identify every entity created using your identity.""
"Okay.""
"Fourth, we stop you from talking about substantive financial matters with your family unless I approve it.""
That one stung.
"They're still my family.""
"That's exactly why.""
She leaned forward.
"Paige, the people who love us can still have interests that conflict with ours.""
I thought about three empty graduation chairs.
"I understand.""
Rebecca moved fast.
By afternoon, she'd contacted Daniel.
By evening, she had copies of Grandma's estate filings.
At 8:17 the next morning, she called.
"Come in.""
My heart started pounding.
"What did you find?""
"Come in.""
That was never a comforting sentence from an attorney.
When I arrived, three folders waited on her desk.
She pointed to the first.
"Your grandmother's will.""
Second.
"Trust instrument.""
Third.
"Probate records.""
I sat.
"Do I own the shares?""
Rebecca looked at me.
"Yes.""
One word.
My entire life shifted.
"Twenty-five percent?""
"Twenty-five percent of the company as it existed at the time of transfer, subject to later legitimate dilution.""
"Was there dilution?""
"We're examining that.""
"So I'm an owner.""
"You appear to be.""
I stared at the folders.
"Then why didn't I receive distributions?""
Rebecca's expression changed.
"That's the interesting question.""
My stomach tightened.
"How much should I have received?""
"Based on preliminary tax and corporate records?""
She paused.
"Potentially hundreds of thousands of dollars.""
I stopped breathing.
"How many hundreds?""
"Too early to say.""
"Rebecca.""
"Possibly more than six hundred thousand over the years.""
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain had nowhere else to put the shock.
Six hundred thousand dollars.
I had once cried in a grocery store parking lot because my debit card declined for $43.18.
I had worked Christmas Eve because holiday pay meant I could buy next semester's textbooks.
Six hundred thousand dollars.
"Where did it go?""
"We don't know yet.""
My phone rang.
Dad.
I declined it.
Rebecca noticed.
"Good.""
"He'll keep calling.""
"Then let him.""
Ten minutes later, her assistant knocked.
"There's a Walter Holloway downstairs.""
I stared at Rebecca.
"I told him not to call.""
"He didn't.""
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Rebecca asked, "Do you want to see him?""
I considered saying no.
Then I nodded.
Grandpa entered carrying an old leather briefcase.
He looked tired.
"I know you told me not to call.""
"So you came to my lawyer's office?""
"I figured she'd throw me out if you didn't want me here.""
Rebecca said, "Accurate.""
Grandpa sat.
He placed the briefcase on the floor.
"I found something.""
Rebecca held up a hand.
"Before you say anything, understand that I represent Paige.""
"I know.""
"Not the company.""
"I know.""
"Not you.""
"I know.""
"Good.""
Grandpa opened the case.
Inside were old corporate ledgers.
Actual paper.
Handwritten entries.
"My father taught me never to trust a business record that existed in only one place.""
Rebecca put on gloves before handling them.
The first ledger dated back decades.
Grandpa pointed to a section.
Eleanor Holloway.
Twenty-five percent.
Walter Holloway.
Seventy-five percent.
Later entry.
Transfer upon death.
Paige Marie Holloway Trust.
Twenty-five percent.
My name.
There it was.
Not a story.
Not a promise.
Ink.
Grandpa turned another page.
Then another.
Rebecca leaned closer.
"What is this?""
"Distribution ledger.""
Rows of annual payments.
Grandpa pointed.
Walter.
David.
Paige Trust.
Every year, money had been allocated to me.
But beginning twelve years earlier, the payment instructions changed.
Recipient account:
PMH Custodial Holdings.
I frowned.
"That's not the same PMH Holdings from the bank?""
Rebecca shook her head.
"Different entity.""
Grandpa said, "This one existed first.""
"Who controlled it?""
His face darkened.
"David was supposed to.""
I felt sick.
"Supposed to?""
Rebecca turned pages.
The authorization signature was Dad's.
Grandpa said quietly, "I called him this morning.""
My eyes snapped up.
"I told you—"
"I didn't discuss you. I asked whether he'd ever opened this account.""
"And?""
"He hadn't.""
Rebecca studied the signature.
"Another forgery?""
"Possibly.""
I already knew who I suspected.
Then Grandpa removed one last document.
A bank statement.
Old.
Nearly faded.
Rebecca read it.
Her eyebrows rose.
"What?""
She looked at Grandpa.
"Where did you get this?""
"Eleanor's safe.""
Rebecca turned the page toward me.
The account had once held more than $300,000.
Then, over a six-month period, almost all of it had been transferred out.
Recipient after recipient.
Holloway Educational Services.
Holloway Family Expense Account.
TMG.
My hands went cold.
"TMG existed twelve years ago?""
Grandpa nodded.
"Not the LLC. The abbreviation.""
I looked closer.
TMG Education Fund.
Trevor Michael Grant.
Mom hadn't just used my trust for Trevor after Grandma died.
She had apparently been redirecting my company distributions toward him for years.
My phone buzzed.
Trevor.
Rebecca told me not to answer.
Then another message arrived.
You found the old ledger, didn't you?
I stared at it.
How could he know?
Another message.
Ask Grandpa where Grandma's original will is.
I looked up.
"Where's Grandma's original will?""
Grandpa frowned.
"At the law office that handled probate.""
Rebecca shook her head.
"No. I requested the original yesterday.""
My stomach tightened.
"What did they say?""
"It isn't there.""
Grandpa stared at her.
"What?""
"The firm closed eight years ago. The archived originals were transferred to storage.""
"And?""
"Your wife's file is missing.""
Grandpa went pale.
Trevor sent another message.
I know who has it.
Then a photo arrived.
Mom.
She was standing outside a storage facility.
The timestamp showed six months earlier.
In her hands was a document box.
I showed Rebecca.
Grandpa whispered, "Linda.""
Trevor's final message appeared.
Mom didn't start this, Paige.
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Then:
Dad did.
