Chapter 4 - West Elm
Number 402 West Elm was a sagging Victorian house swallowed by overgrown lilac bushes on the wrong side of the tracks. Paint peeled from the clapboards in gray curls, and the front porch boards groaned loudly under our weight as Chloe and I walked up to the screen door.
I knocked twice.
Inside, floorboards creaked. A deadbolt turned with a heavy, metallic clunk, and the door swung open six inches.
An old man with sunken eyes, a shock of white hair, and a plaid flannel shirt buttoned crookedly peered out at us. He looked at me, then down at my visibly pregnant stomach, and a bitter, knowing smile touched his lips.
“You have Arthur’s stubborn chin,” the old man rasped. “Though thankfully, you got your mother’s nose.”
I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. “Do I know you?”
“You don't. But I knew your grandfather. And I certainly knew your husband’s grandfather.” He pulled the door open the rest of the way. “Come in before the neighbors see you. Diane has eyes everywhere in this town.”
We stepped into a dim, cluttered living room that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old books. Stacks of architectural blueprints covered every available flat surface.
“I’m Thomas Vance,” the old man said, lowering himself heavily into a worn leather armchair. He gestured for us to sit on the sofa. “Well, what’s left of him.”
Chloe and I exchanged a stunned look. Thomas Vance wasn't a ghost from ancient history; he was sitting right in front of us.
“You’re supposed to have been bought out and retired to Florida in ninety-one,” I said, pulling the dissolution papers from my bag and laying them on the coffee table.
Thomas let out a dry, rattling cough that sounded like gravel in a tin can. “Arthur was good with stories. He told the board I wanted out. He didn't tell them he had my signature forged while I was recovering from a stroke in county hospital.” He pointed a trembling finger at the document. “That signature on page four? Not mine. My hand was paralyzed on the right side for six months after that stroke.”
I looked down at the paper. The signature looked smooth, almost too smooth for a man recovering from a neurological crisis.
“Why didn't you fight him?” Chloe asked gently.
“With what money?” Thomas asked bitterly. “Arthur owned the bank, the judges, and half the city council by then. He stripped my equity, threatened to cut off my medical insurance, and told me if I ever spoke a word about how Miller Construction actually got its first capital injection, my family would end up living in a shelter.”
He looked up at me, his milky blue eyes intense. “Diane knows about this. She found my old safe deposit box three years ago when Arthur died. That’s why she holds all the cards. The entire Miller empire isn't legally hers—it’s built on a stolen foundation.”
“If that’s true,” I said, leaning forward, “then the 'direct male line' clause in the corporate bylaws... it’s completely invalid.”
“Not just invalid,” Thomas whispered with a grim smile. “If those original 1986 shares are restored according to the true partnership split, the controlling interest doesn't belong to Diane or Tyler. It belongs to the surviving heirs of the founding partnership.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.
May you like
“Which includes you, Hannah. By marriage, and by the child you’re carrying.”
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