In recent years, he had handed control to his son-in-law, Chase Morton, a charming executive who spoke in buzzwords and smiled like a wolf wearing teeth made of gold. Harlan had believed Chase was family, blood by choice if not by birth. He had believed his daughter’s husband would protect the legacy he had sweated and bled to build.
Brenna entered with the envelope. Chase trailed behind her, clearly irritated at being interrupted.
“Harlan,” Brenna said, “a young boy found this. You need to see it.”
Harlan took the envelope with hands that trembled more from age than nerves. The pages smelled faintly of ink and something sour, something like betrayal. He read the first paragraph. Then the second. His breath faltered.
The document detailed covert layoffs. It described the closure of scholarship programs that had once helped underprivileged youth. It authorized the sale of a community center that Harlan had personally funded. Each item bore his signature.
Signatures he had never given.
Chase stepped forward. “This is a misunderstanding. Someone must have leaked outdated drafts. You know how chaotic administration can be.”