Her tone shifted immediately, sharper, focused.
“What kind of something?”
“A check, an agreement, and a few extras.”
“Extras?” she repeated.
“You’ll see.”
Another pause.
“Bring it in tomorrow,” she said. “First thing. Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up and set the phone down. For a moment, I just sat there staring at the papers. Then I gathered them back into the envelope and placed it neatly on the table. I leaned back in Charles’s chair again, closing my eyes.
“I didn’t stop him,” I murmured. “Just like you said.”
A quiet settled over the room. Not heavy, just present. I sat there a long time before getting up.
The next morning came quicker than I expected. Dallas mornings have a certain kind of light—bright, but not harsh yet. I made coffee, black, out of habit more than anything, and stood by the kitchen window while it brewed. The house felt less empty in the daylight. Still quiet, but manageable. I got dressed simply. Navy slacks, a light blouse, low heels, nothing that drew attention. I picked up my purse, hesitated, then reached for something on the counter. Charles’s old pen. He’d carried it for years, said it was the only one that felt right in his hand. I slipped it into my purse. Then I grabbed the envelope and headed out.
Linda’s office was in a small building just off McKinney Avenue. Nothing flashy. Clean. Professional. I’d always liked that about her. No nonsense. I walked in a few minutes early. The receptionist smiled and nodded me toward the waiting area, but before I could sit, Linda’s door opened.
“Diane,” she said, stepping out. “Come on in.”
Her office was just as I remembered—shelves of files, a large desk, a couple of chairs across from it. I handed her the envelope without a word. She opened it, pulled everything out, and started reading. I watched her face. At first, nothing. Then a slight tightening around her eyes. She read the agreement once, then again, slower. Finally, she looked up.
“Well,” she said quietly, “that’s ambitious.”
I gave a small, humorless smile.
“That’s one way to put it.”
She tapped the paper lightly with her finger.
“He’s not just asking you to leave the house,” she said. “This language here—any and all claims related to Mercer family holdings—that’s broad enough to include things he probably doesn’t even realize you have.”
I felt something settle into place.
“I thought so,” I said.
She leaned back in her chair, studying me.
“Does Brent know about your shares?” she asked.
“No.”
“And you’ve never told him.”
“No.”
A pause. Then she nodded slowly.
“Good,” she said.
“Good?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she said, a faint smile forming. “Because if he knew, he wouldn’t have written it like this.”
I leaned forward slightly.
“What do you mean?”
Linda tapped the agreement again.
“It means,” she said, “he’s trying to get you to sign away something he doesn’t even know you control.”
The room went very still. I felt my heartbeat in my chest, steady, calm. Not fear. Something else. Understanding. I sat back in the chair and let out a slow breath.
“So the house,” I said.
“Isn’t the point,” Linda finished.
We looked at each other. And in that moment, the whole thing shifted.
“This wasn’t about pushing me out. This was about clearing the way for something bigger.”
“Diane,” Linda said carefully, “when is the next shareholders meeting?”
I didn’t answer right away, because I already knew.
“The 23rd,” I said. “Two weeks from Monday.”
