Chapter 5: The Woman at the Top of the Stairs
My father called back in forty minutes.
"Her name is Patricia Osei," he said.
"She's a senior partner at Osei and Calloway.
She handled the Drummond case — you remember that one, the construction company fraud.
She'll see you tomorrow at eight."
"How did you reach her tonight?"
"I called her husband.
We were in the same Rotary chapter for fifteen years." A pause.
"Laura, are you safe?"
"I'm in the driveway."
"Go to a hotel."
"I need to get some things from the house first."
"Then I'm coming."
"Papa—"
"I'm already in the car."
I didn't argue.
I sat and waited.
Mark's study light stayed off.
Forty minutes later, my father's truck pulled up behind me.
He was seventy-one years old, and he got out moving like a man twenty years younger.
He didn't say anything when he reached my window.
He just looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I got out of the car.
We went inside together.
Mark was in the kitchen.
He was sitting at the island with a glass of scotch and his phone face-up on the marble.
He looked up when we walked in.
When he saw my father, something shifted in his face.
"Manuel," he said carefully.
"I didn't know you were coming."
"I didn't know I needed to," my father said.
Mark looked at me.
"Laura, I think we should talk privately."
"Whatever you want to say to me, you can say in front of my father."
A pause.
He set down the glass.
"I spoke to my attorney this evening.
There are some misunderstandings about the company structure that I want to clear up.
The documents Andrew showed you were taken out of context—"
"Mark." I set the envelope on the island between us.
"I've seen the email to Phoenix."
He looked at the envelope.
He didn't touch it.
"The share transfer with my forged signature," I said.
"The holding company in Ofelia's name.
The dissolution timeline.
I've seen all of it."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he picked up his glass again.
"You're going to want to be very careful about words like *forged*, Laura.
That's a serious allegation."
"It's a serious document."
"You've been under a lot of stress.
We both have.
I think if you sit down with my attorney and let him walk you through the structure—"
"I have my own attorney," I said.
"Patricia Osei.
We meet tomorrow at eight."
The glass stopped moving halfway to his mouth.
My father was watching Mark the way he used to watch contractors who submitted inflated invoices.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly patient.
"Patricia Osei," Mark repeated.
"Yes."
He set the glass down.
"That's — Laura, that's an aggressive move.
That's not the kind of attorney you hire to sort out a misunderstanding."
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
Footsteps on the stairs.
We all turned.
Ofelia appeared at the bottom of the staircase.
She was in her robe, her silver hair loose, her expression arranged into the particular look she had perfected over three years — the one that said she was merely a concerned older woman and whatever was happening was certainly not her fault.
"I heard voices," she said.
"Manuel.
I didn't know you were visiting."
My father looked at her for a long moment.
"Ofelia," he said.
Just her name.
Nothing else.
But his voice carried twenty-eight years of watching her treat his daughter like a guest in her own home.
She turned to Mark.
A small look.
Fast.
The kind of look that passes between people who have already spoken.
I saw it.
My father saw it.
"Ofelia," I said.
"How long have you been a director of Meridian Property Holdings?"
Her expression didn't change.
"I have several small investments.
I don't see how that's relevant."
"Four hundred and twelve thousand dollars moved from our company account into Meridian in eleven months.
I think that's quite relevant."
"Laura." Mark's voice had an edge now.
"This is not the time or the place—"
"Then when?" I said.
"You've had eighteen months.
When was the time?"
Ofelia pulled her robe tighter.
"Mark, I think you should call Gerald tonight.
This has gone far enough."
Gerald.
The attorney.
Mark reached for his phone.
My father stepped forward — not aggressively, just one step — and said, very quietly: "Marcus.
Look at me."
Mark had not been called Marcus by anyone in years.
He looked up.
"I helped you build that company," my father said.
"Every dollar I had.
I did that for my daughter.
Not for you.
Not for your mother.
For Laura." He paused.
"Whatever you're about to do next, think carefully."
May you like
The kitchen was very quiet.
Mark made the call anyway.
