Daniel crouched until they were eye to eye. He clipped the astronaut to the outside of the backpack, exactly where Noah had wanted it that morning, and straightened the twisted shoulder strap. "Yes, buddy. We're still going to Denver. I promised."
"Even though you lost your job?"
Daniel felt the question more sharply than the folder. Noah's face carried the earnest seriousness children develop when they understand enough about money to be worried by it, but not enough to understand that adults can sometimes choose which consequences matter. Daniel brushed a loose strand of hair away from his son's forehead. "Even though. The science museum isn't going anywhere, and neither are we."
Victoria watched the exchange with an irritation she could not immediately explain. She had approved layoffs affecting hundreds of positions without losing sleep, had faced hostile investors without blinking, and had recently negotiated a supplier contract while two attorneys shouted over one another through a conference screen. Yet the sight of Daniel carefully adjusting a child's backpack while his employment ended had produced an uncomfortable stillness inside her. It was as though a familiar business decision had suddenly acquired a face she was being forced to look at.
"Your identification badge," she said, reaching for the last piece of procedure available to her. "I'll need it now."
Daniel rose and opened his wallet. The company badge was tucked behind a library card and a photograph of Noah with two front teeth missing, smiling proudly beside a school robotics project. Daniel removed the badge, checked that the plastic sleeve contained no personal documents, and placed it in her palm. "Then I suppose you won't need this anymore."
As he lifted his duffel, the zipper caught on something metallic tucked into the outside pocket. A narrow silver key slid partly into view, its old-fashioned bow engraved with a six-pointed compass surrounding a tiny star. It did not look like a modern office key; the metal was worn smooth where fingers had gripped it for years, and one tooth bore a faint scratch. Victoria's gaze followed the small movement almost against her will.
She knew that symbol. For three years, she had seen variations of it on confidential transaction summaries, old investor correspondence, and presentations prepared by advisers who had never been permitted to identify their client. Financial journalists called the investor the Phantom Fund because it seemed to appear wherever overlooked technology companies suddenly received enormous infusions of capital. Its managing entities changed from transaction to transaction, but the little six-pointed compass appeared in the margins of documents that mattered.
"Where did you get that?" she asked.
Daniel glanced down at the silver key, then back at her. "It was my father's."
"Your father?" Victoria repeated, the authority draining from the question. She moved half a step closer, studying the worn metal. "May I see it?"
Daniel hesitated, then held it where she could examine the emblem without surrendering it. She leaned forward, recognized a tiny nick in the upper left spoke, and felt her stomach tighten. This was not merely a similar symbol; it appeared to be the same design used on the original Northstar Family Trust seal, a design her bankers had spent years trying to trace.