Chapter 10: What Gerald Said
The injunction came through at 1:14 AM.
Patricia showed my father the confirmation on her phone.
He read it once, set the phone down on the table, and pressed both hands flat against the surface for a moment — not dramatically, just steadily, like a man making sure the ground was still there.
"The Monday transfer is frozen," Patricia said.
"Gerald's legal team will be notified when business hours open.
He'll know by nine AM at the latest."
"He'll know before that," Daniel said.
"He'll check his accounts tonight."
We looked at each other.
"Then we should talk to him now," I said.
"Before he has time to move anything else."
My father shook his head.
"Olivia—"
"He's still in there.
He doesn't know what's happened.
If we wait until morning, he has all night to call people, destroy things, prepare." I looked at Patricia.
"Is there any legal reason we can't speak to him tonight?"
"None.
The injunction covers the transfer.
It doesn't prevent a conversation." She paused.
"I'd advise keeping it short and not making any representations about what evidence you hold."
"I just want him to know," I said.
"I want him to hear it from us."
My father stood up slowly.
He straightened the wrinkled jacket — the same jacket he had worn as a performance, that had turned out to be something closer to the truth.
He didn't say anything.
He just nodded.
We walked back into the ballroom together.
Most guests had gone.
A few lingered near the bar.
The band was packing up.
Gerald was at his table, his wife beside him, his champagne glass finally empty.
He was checking his phone.
He looked up when we approached.
His wife smiled.
Gerald's smile came a half-second later — still practiced, still warm, but the half-second was new.
"Edward," he said.
"Quite a night."
"It has been," my father said.
"Heading out soon.
Long drive." Gerald stood, extending his hand.
My father did not take it.
Gerald's hand stayed out for a moment.
Then it came down.
"The Monday transfer has been frozen," my father said.
Quietly.
Without heat.
"Emergency injunction, filed tonight.
Patricia Hale.
You remember Patricia."
Gerald's wife looked between them.
"I don't know what you think you've found," Gerald said, and his voice had changed — the warmth was still there but it was working harder now, "but whatever Patricia has told you, there are two sides to every—"
"Robert Whitmore is prepared to testify," Daniel said.
Gerald went still.
"He's been here tonight," Daniel continued.
"He has his copy of the transfer documents.
Including the last page — the one with the substituted signature."
"Robert doesn't understand what he—"
"He understands exactly what he signed," I said.
"And he understands exactly what he was shown versus what ended up in the record.
He's prepared to say so under oath."
Gerald looked at me.
For the first time in my life, the warmth in his face was completely gone.
What was underneath it was not anger.
It was calculation — fast, cold, and suddenly visible.
"You're making a serious mistake," he said.
"Your father signed documents.
There is a paper trail.
Whatever story Robert is telling himself, the record shows—"
"The record shows a forged signature," my father said.
"And a legal notice sent to an address I haven't used in seven years.
And a sixty-day window that was designed to run out before I knew it had opened." He paused.
"I built that company for twenty-six years, Gerald.
I brought you in when you had nothing.
I gave you a third of everything I built."
Gerald said nothing.
"Was it not enough?" my father asked.
"I want to understand.
Was there a number that would have been enough?"
The question sat in the air between them.
Gerald picked up his jacket from the back of his chair.
"I'll have my lawyers contact Patricia in the morning."
"I'm sure you will," my father said.
Gerald's wife touched his arm.
They walked toward the exit without looking back.
At the door, Gerald paused — just briefly — and turned.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I always liked you, Edward.
That part was real."
My father watched him go.
"I know," he said quietly.
"That's what made it possible."
The door closed.
The last of the band finished packing.
A server moved through the empty tables collecting glasses.
The centerpieces stood in the silence — white flowers, candles burned low.
May you like
Daniel put his hand on my father's shoulder.
My father reached up and covered it with his own.
