My Parents Threw Me Out on Christmas—Then the Bank Saw Grandpa’s Box
“It means the trust controls enough voting interests to influence board composition and certain major corporate decisions.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-seven percent of the voting units.”
Not sixty-two.
Not some perfect number from a movie.
Fifty-seven.
Still enough.
I stared at my name.
“Does Victor know?”
“He knows the trust exists.”
“Does he know I’m beneficiary?”
Malcolm’s silence answered.
“Why wouldn’t Grandpa tell him?”
“You need to speak with Naomi.”
“I can call her now.”
He checked the time.
“She expected that you might contact us during a difficult family period.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Your grandfather was an observant man.”
Naomi Hale met me at Cedar Crest forty minutes later.
She wore jeans beneath a wool coat.
No makeup.
Clearly pulled away from Christmas morning.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For ruining your holiday.”
“You didn’t.”
“Henry has been ruining my holidays from beyond the grave for eight months.”
That surprised a laugh out of me.
Then she became serious.
