Chapter 4 - The Fire
Marcus refused to speak until we returned to the Sinclair Grand.
I refused to let him return to his office.
We met in a private conference room on the forty-second floor.
No Vanessa.
No directors.
Only Marcus, Samuel, Daniel, and me.
I placed the photograph in front of him.
"What fire?"
Marcus stared at it.
"You won't believe me."
"Try."
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"Twelve years ago, Richard asked me to help with something."
"My father?"
"Yes."
"You told me he barely tolerated you before our engagement."
"He wanted you to think that."
Samuel leaned forward.
"Why?"
Marcus looked at him.
"Because Richard was investigating someone inside the company."
"Who?"
"Edwin Mercer."
I shook my head.
"Edwin had already left by then."
"Officially."
Marcus looked toward me.
"He never really left."
My father had built Sinclair Hospitality through obsessive control.
He knew every property manager.
Every executive.
Every major vendor.
The idea that Edwin had continued working secretly under his nose seemed impossible.
Unless my father had allowed it.
Marcus continued.
"Richard believed money was being routed through shell companies tied to old Sinclair properties."
"How were you involved?"
"I was young."
His mouth twisted bitterly.
"I wanted your father's respect."
That part I believed.
"So when he asked me to follow Mercer, I did."
"To where?"
"The Harbor Hotel."
My hands tightened.
"The photograph."
"Richard took it."
Marcus tapped the image.
"He wanted proof Mercer was meeting someone."
"Who?"
"I never saw his face."
Marcus paused.
"But that night, the west storage wing caught fire."
I remembered the fire.
My father had told me faulty wiring caused it.
One maintenance worker died.
Marcus looked down.
"That wasn't true."
"What happened?"
"There were records inside."
"What records?"
"Original ownership documents."
Samuel went completely still.
"Trust documents?"
Marcus nodded.
"Richard believed someone was trying to destroy evidence connected to the Sinclair family trusts."
A sick feeling moved through me.
"And you never told me?"
"Your father ordered me not to."
"He's been dead ten years."
"I made a promise."
I laughed in disbelief.
"You threw me into the street last night while your mistress wore my mother's jewelry, but you were protecting a promise to my father?"
Marcus flinched.
Good.
He deserved to.
Samuel opened his laptop.
"If the original trust records were targeted twelve years ago, Article Nine may not have been created solely as protection from Marcus."
I looked at him.
"What are you saying?"
"Your father may have known someone was trying to take the entire Sinclair estate."
Daniel entered suddenly.
He had left twenty minutes earlier to investigate the missing case.
"We found something."
He placed a small evidence bag on the table.
Inside was a brass key.
"Where?"
"Behind a loose baseboard in Mrs. Vale's private suite."
I recognized it.
My father had kept a key like that on his desk throughout my childhood.
I had assumed it opened an old safe.
Daniel added another item.
A handwritten note.
My father's handwriting.
I read it twice.
AMELIA, IF ARTICLE NINE IS EVER ACTIVATED, DO NOT TRUST THE PERSON WHO HELPS YOU WIN THE FIRST VOTE.
I looked at Samuel.
Then Daniel.
Then Marcus.
"The first vote is tomorrow."
Samuel nodded slowly.
A special board vote would formally ratify my emergency control.
Twelve directors.
I needed seven.
Samuel had already promised me nine.
I looked at him.
He understood immediately.
"Richard is warning you about someone on the board."
Marcus stood.
"Then cancel the vote."
"No."
He stared at me.
"Amelia, somebody planned this years ago."
"I know."
"Then stop acting like this is only about our marriage."
I stepped toward him.
"It stopped being only about our marriage the moment someone stole my father's case."
Marcus lowered his voice.
"What are you going to do?"
I picked up the brass key.
"I'm going to win the vote."
Samuel frowned.
"Your father's note specifically warns—"
"I know."
I slipped the key into my pocket.
"And then I'm going to find out which person congratulates me first."
The next morning, I won nine votes to three.
The chairman announced the result.
The room applauded cautiously.
Then one director rose.
He walked toward me.
Smiling.
"Your father would be proud."
He extended his hand.
I looked at him.
Charles Whitmore.
May you like
My father's oldest friend.
And the first man to congratulate me.
