"We believe the records," Altha said. "And we believe that you care about what happens to those people. But caring has to become action that will stand up when a powerful man starts calling us liars." She walked Miriam to the church door, where morning light spread across the steps. "You don't need to be fearless. Just don't let fear make your decisions for you."
At the hotel, Preston Vale had begun his day with a different kind of meeting. His office occupied the top corner of the executive tower, with a view of the Atlanta skyline that he liked to use as a reminder of how far his family had risen. A photograph of Charles Vale hung behind the desk beside framed awards for hospitality excellence. There was no portrait of Altha Monroe anywhere on the executive floor.
Preston stood with his chief financial officer and Martin Greer, now old enough that rising from a chair required deliberate effort. Greer's suit was dark, his hands carefully groomed, and his speech carried the same measured patience that had reassured Altha decades earlier. Preston had shown him the lobby footage circulating among investors' staff and demanded to know whether the woman could threaten the sale. Greer had watched twice before answering.
"Her presence is inconvenient," he said. "But a resemblance to a historical photograph is not evidence of ownership." Preston slammed a palm onto the desk.
"She called herself Altha Grace Monroe. Miriam recognized her. People were filming, Martin. You told my father that family was finished."
Greer adjusted his glasses. "What I told your father was that the operating transfers had been recorded and that no court had overturned them. The documents were challenged years ago, and the claims did not succeed at that time." He chose his words carefully, avoiding a direct assurance that the papers were authentic. Preston had known Greer long enough to recognize the difference.
"What about the original trust agreement?" Preston asked. Greer hesitated. The hesitation made Preston feel something he disliked: uncertainty.
He leaned across the desk. "You said the fire destroyed it. You said she couldn't prove a thing."
"The principal file was damaged," Greer replied. "Whether she retained personal copies is another question. Most people do not keep business records for forty years, but I would not assume that Dr. Monroe is like most people." Preston's anger sharpened at the respectful title. In his mind, the hotel was a monument to the Vale family's ambition, and the idea of owing any part of it to an older Black woman in a floral skirt felt intolerable.
He ordered a search of corporate archives for every document bearing the Monroe name. He wanted former staff identified, a review of historical minutes, and an assessment of the risk that the founder might create unwanted publicity during the weekend. He also demanded that Greer prepare a legal response treating her as a trespasser if she returned. The lawyer agreed to review available options, though he warned that a formal complaint might draw attention to issues Preston preferred to keep out of public discussion.