“Why?”
“Just keep everything.”
“How many people are you calling?”
“I don’t know yet.”
By Christmas Eve, Evan had thirty-one names.
Every employee was operational.
Calibration.
Assembly.
Shipping.
Warehouse.
Yard.
Facilities.
Not one sales employee.
Not one director.
Not one executive.
The certificates matched payroll obligations precisely enough that the pattern could not plausibly be described as holiday gifts.
Christmas morning arrived anyway.
Sophie opened three presents.
A book.
A sweater.
A set of drawing pencils.
No digital tablet.
She did not mention it.
That hurt Evan more than if she had.
Later they drove to his sister’s house for dinner.
Nobody there knew what was happening at Blackidge.
Evan kept it that way.
He was not ready to turn a suspicion into a family story before he understood it.
On December 26th, Blackidge reopened.
The plant felt wrong.
Quiet.
People had clearly been talking all holiday.
Evan arrived at 6:41.
Put on his safety glasses.
Checked the calibration fixtures.
Then, before beginning his shift, walked upstairs to Grant’s office.
The executive floor had carpeting thick enough to absorb footsteps.
Grant was already at his desk.
He looked surprised.
“Evan.”
“Morning.”
“What do you need?”
“One question.”
Grant gestured impatiently.
Evan stood inside the doorway.
“Is the company certain it wants the December certificates recorded as wages paid?”