Chapter 2 - For all the authority people attributed to Alexander Whitmore, he suddenly looked like a man trying to choose words carefully.
“I was angry.”
“At Mason?”
“At what he did.”
“So you proposed marriage?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds irrational.”
“It was irrational.”
“Yes.”
I hadn’t expected agreement.
He continued.
“But it wasn’t entirely spontaneous.”
Something shifted in my chest.
“What does that mean?”
He looked directly at me.
“It means I have cared about you longer than yesterday.”
I stood.
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
He remained seated.
“I’m not asking anything from you.”
“You asked me to marry you.”
“In a moment I would handle differently now.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
I paced toward the window.
I remembered every dinner.
Every fundraiser.
Every holiday gathering where Alexander had appeared briefly, spoken politely, then vanished before dessert.
Had there been signs?
I didn’t know.
That frightened me.
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Since I started dating Mason?”
“Before I knew you were dating him.”
I turned.
“That makes this worse.”
“I’m aware.”
“Were you waiting for us to fail?”
“No.”
“Did you interfere?”
“Never.”
I searched his face.
“Did you tell Mason about my family’s debt?”
His expression sharpened.
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Then how did he know?”
That changed something.
Alexander leaned forward.
“What exactly did Mason know?”
“He knew about payroll pressure. The liens. The debt amount.”
“How much?”
“Nearly five million.”
Alexander went still.
“What?”
“He said my family owed millions.”
“Did he say four point eight?”
“No.”
“But he knew there were liens?”
“Yes.”
Alexander stood.
“When did you tell him?”
“I didn’t know about the four-point-eight-million loan until last night.”
“Did Richard?”
“Obviously.”
“I mean, did Richard tell Mason?”
“I don’t know.”
Alexander walked to the study door.
I blocked him.
“No.”
“I need to ask your father.”
“First you explain why you’re suddenly concerned.”
He lowered his voice.
“Because the details of Northstar’s loan are confidential.”
A chill traveled down my arms.
“Who knows?”
“Your father. His accountant. My attorney. Two members of my finance team.”
“And Mercer?”
Alexander’s eyes narrowed.
“Mercer shouldn’t.”
I thought of the contracts.
“Do you know them?”
“By reputation.”
“Dad says they’ve been strangling us with terrible purchase agreements.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?”
“Because Mercer approached one of my companies last year.”
“For what?”
“To purchase a manufacturing portfolio.”
I stared at him.
“Carter?”
“I don’t know. We declined before due diligence.”
“Who owns Mercer?”
“A series of investment entities.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
“How quickly?”
His gaze met mine.
“I already started.”
I blinked.
“When?”
“This morning.”
Of course he had.
I opened the door.
“Dad.”
My father entered almost immediately, which meant he had almost certainly been standing in the hallway.
I gave him a look.
He ignored it.
Alexander asked, “Did you tell Mason the terms of the Northstar loan?”
Dad looked genuinely confused.
“No.”
“Did anyone at Carter?”
“Not with my permission.”
I pulled out the Mercer contracts.
“What about these?”
Alexander read silently.
The longer he read, the more his expression changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
“Richard, who negotiated this agreement?”
Dad hesitated.
“Peter Lang.”
Alexander looked up.
“Your former CFO?”
“Yes.”
“He left Carter six months ago.”
Dad nodded.
“He said he needed to relocate for family reasons.”
Alexander closed the file.
“Where did he go?”
“Wisconsin, I thought.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Peter Lang is now chief financial officer of Mercer Supply Group.”
The room went still.
Dad stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
Alexander handed him his phone.
A corporate webpage was open.
There was Peter Lang.
The man who had worked beside my father for eleven years.
The man who attended Mom’s funeral.
The man who knew every account Carter Manufacturing had.
And beneath his photograph were the words:
Chief Financial Officer — Mercer Supply Group.
My father sank into a chair.
“He never told me.”
I read the biography twice.
Something felt wrong.
Not simply suspicious.
Incomplete.
“Maybe he was hired afterward,” I said.
Alexander nodded.
“Possibly.”
“You’re not convinced.”
“I prefer evidence before conclusions.”
That surprised me.
Given his reputation, I had expected certainty.
Instead, he gathered the papers.
“We need to understand the timeline.”
My father rubbed both hands over his face.
“I trusted Peter.”
“So did I,” I said.
Dad looked at me.
There was pain in his eyes, but also embarrassment.
I sat beside him.
“We don’t know what happened yet.”
Alexander watched us quietly.
Then Dad said, “There’s something else.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there is.”
He almost smiled.
“Your mother kept records.”
“What kind?”
“Everything.”
That was true.
Mom labeled leftovers.
She had once created a spreadsheet for Christmas decorations.
Dad continued.
“When she became ill, she moved several company files home because she wanted to review the pension accounts.”
“Why?”
“She was worried Peter had made changes she didn’t understand.”
Alexander’s attention sharpened.
“Where are those files?”
“In the attic.”
For the next three hours, three adults who had arrived at the house dressed for very different lives sat on my childhood floor surrounded by cardboard boxes.
Alexander removed his jacket.
Dad found his reading glasses.
I found twenty-seven years of family history.
Old tax records.
Christmas cards.
Photographs.
Employee newsletters.
Mom’s handwriting appeared everywhere.
Ask Richard about insurance renewal.
Emily’s graduation Friday — leave by 3!
Peter says vendor switch saves 8%. Verify.
At one point, I found a picture of myself at nine wearing safety goggles twice the size of my face.
Alexander glanced at it.
“You were very serious.”
“I thought I was running the factory.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
Dad nodded.
“She fired three supervisors before lunch.”
“They deserved it.”
For the first time all day, Alexander laughed.
It transformed him.
Briefly, he looked younger.
Normal.
Then I realized I was staring.
I looked away.
An hour later, Dad found a blue binder.
“Here.”
Inside were handwritten notes covering six months before Mom died.
Most were ordinary.
Vendor comparisons.
Pension calculations.
Insurance.
Then one page stopped me.
Mercer — Peter recommends exclusive distribution agreement. Why? Numbers don’t support it.
Below that:
Asked Peter about ownership. Evasive.
And beneath it:
Call A.W. if necessary.
Alexander read silently.
“My mother knew about Mercer.”
Dad looked devastated.
“She never told me.”
“She might not have known enough yet,” I said.
Alexander turned the page.
A photocopy slipped loose.
It was a letter addressed to Mom.
No sender.
No signature.
Only four typed lines.
Mrs. Carter,
Your concerns are justified. Before your husband signs any long-term distribution agreement, ask who benefits if Carter Manufacturing cannot meet its debt obligations.
Look beyond Mercer.
I read it twice.
“Who sent this?”
Dad shook his head.
“I’ve never seen it.”
Alexander studied the paper.
“Neither have I.”
There was a handwritten note at the bottom in Mom’s ink.
Peter? M.W.? Ask Alexander.
My heartbeat changed.
“M.W.”
Dad looked at me.
“Mason Whitmore?”
Alexander said nothing.
I looked at him.
“Could it mean someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Does it?”
“I don’t know.”
But his face told me he was thinking the same thing I was.
I stood and walked toward the window.
Outside, late-afternoon sunlight stretched across the lawn.
May you like
Twenty-four hours ago, I had believed my biggest problem was a canceled wedding.
Now I was wondering whether my mother had discovered something involving the man I almost married.
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