Chapter 8 - The Truth in the Trust
Richard reached us, shoving past Madison with a desperate, frantic energy, grabbing my wrist with a heavy, sweating grip.
“Claire, listen to me,” my father whispered, his voice dropping into a shaky, pleading tone that he had never once used in my entire life. “Whatever game you’re playing with your grandfather’s old papers, stop it right now. The quarterly payroll disbursement goes out in twenty minutes. If those accounts are locked, our manufacturing plants default, our investors pull out, and we lose everything. Do you hear me? Everything!”
“I hear you loud and clear, Dad,” I replied, calmly pulling my wrist out of his grasp. “The same way I heard you telling Mom that my life was a embarrassment. The same way I heard you say my struggles were an inconvenience.”
My mother, Clara, finally pushed her way through the paralyzed crowd, her designer handbag clutched tightly to her chest, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the ruined party.
“Richard, what is she talking about?” Clara demanded, her voice cracking. “What papers? What trust?”
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“The timber trust,” a cold, measured voice interrupted from the doorway.
We all turned. Thomas Reeves, the branch manager of First Cedar National Bank, walked into the ballroom. He wasn't wearing his usual exhausted expression; he carried himself with the quiet, unyielding authority of a man holding a loaded gun. Behind him stood two armed local deputies, their uniforms crisp, their hands resting casually on their holstered sidearms.
