Despite everything, Oliver was still my son. The baby I had nursed through colic and chicken pox, the child whose nightmares I had soothed, the young man whose graduation had filled me with such fierce pride that my chest ached with it. But he was also the adult who had systematically betrayed his father's trust, who had attempted to steal from loyal employees, who had been prepared to send his mother to an assisted living facility 6 hours away with nothing but a token payment from a company worth millions. I'm certain, I replied, my voice steady.
What time will you collect me tomorrow?
After ending the call, I made my way to Richard's study, drawn there as I had been every day since his death. The room still held his presence so strongly that sometimes I imagined I could hear the tap of his fingers on the keyboard, smell the faint bergamot of his preferred tea. I settled at his desk and opened my laptop, not the family computer Oliver believed I used solely for viewing grandchildren's photos and recipe websites, but a high-performance system Richard had insisted I maintain separately from the family network. Operational security, he'd called it with a wink, though at the time I thought he was being excessive.
Now I understood his foresight. Oliver had never suspected that I maintained my own secure email server, or that Richard and I had communicated through encrypted channels about company matters for years. He certainly never imagined that his father had granted me administrative access to Bradford Precision's internal systems long before his health began to fail. I logged in using credentials Oliver didn't know existed and began reviewing the latest activity.
Since our confrontation yesterday, he had been frantically accessing files, financial records, ownership documents, board minutes from the last 5 years. Most concerning, he had downloaded the complete employee stock ownership plan documents, focusing on the legal mechanisms through which those holdings could be dissolved. My phone chimed with a text from an unfamiliar number. Mrs.
Blackwood, this is Marcus Torres from Bradford Precision's engineering division. Something strange is happening with our project files. Can we speak privately? Marcus had been with the company for nearly 20 years, rising from junior technician to head of special projects.
Richard had often spoken of his brilliant design work and uncompromising integrity. I replied immediately. Of course. Are you at liberty to come to the house 4:00 p.m.?
His response was swift. We'll be there. Thank you.
The doorbell rang precisely at 4:00. Marcus looked exactly as I remembered from company functions. Medium height, trim build, the salt and pepper beard he'd grown after his wife teased him about looking too young to be taken seriously. His expression, however, was unfamiliar, a mixture of anxiety and determination that spoke volumes about his current state of mind.
Mrs. Blackwood, thank you for seeing me, he began as I ushered him into Richard's study. I didn't know where else to turn. Please, call me Amelia, I offered, gesturing toward the visitor's chair.
Richard always spoke of you with such high regard. I'm grateful you reached out. Marcus sat stiffly, hands clasped tightly in his lap. I wouldn't involve you in company matters, especially so soon after Mr.
Blackwood's passing, but this situation is unprecedented. I assume it concerns the company sale, I prompted gently. He nodded, tension evident in every line of his body. Yesterday afternoon, we received departmental notices that all proprietary technology documentation needs to be uploaded to a new secure server by end of day Friday.