Chapter 4 - THE ACCOUNT IN MY DEAD WIFE'S NAME
My father lived twenty miles north of me in a house overlooking Lake Michigan.
We hadn't spoken in seven months.
Thomas Blackwell believed retirement meant continuing to control everything without attending meetings.
I arrived at nine that night.
He was drinking bourbon.
“You look like hell.”
“Did you create ERSA?”
He didn't blink.
That was my answer.
“You've been talking to Adrian.”
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
One word.
Six years of theft.
“Yes?”
“It wasn't theft when it began.”
He explained it as if discussing fuel costs.
Blackwell Domestic Services had been losing contracts.
Competitors used subcontractors and underpaid undocumented workers.
My father created ERSA to lower labor costs without lowering official salaries.
Employees would supposedly receive housing and benefits equal to the deductions.
“But they didn't.”
“Some did.”
“June Carter didn't.”
“Who?”
That was the moment I understood him.
Forty-seven lives.
He didn't know their names.
“How much did you make?”
“This isn't about what I made.”
“That's exactly what thieves say.”
His glass hit the table.
“Careful.”
I laughed.
I was fifty-one years old and some part of me still recognized that warning from childhood.
Not anymore.
“You used Emily's credentials.”
His face changed.
“Adrian told you that?”
“Emily did.”
For the first time, fear appeared.
“What do you mean?”
“She left evidence.”
My father stood.
“What evidence?”
Interesting.
Not grief.
Not surprise.
Evidence.
“You tell me.”
He looked toward the windows.
“Emily became obsessed near the end.”
“With people being robbed?”
“She didn't understand the business.”
“She understood hunger.”
“She was dying, Nathan.”
“So?”
“She wanted to turn every corporate decision into morality.”
I stepped closer.
“Imagine that.”
My father poured another drink.
“Adrian kept the system because eliminating it overnight would expose the company.”
“So he continued stealing to conceal stealing.”
“He contained the damage.”
That was Adrian's defense.
Containment.
My father created the machine.
Adrian kept feeding it.
But something still didn't fit.
The money.
Where had $1.6 million gone?
My father looked at me.
“You think this is about a million dollars?”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
He said nothing.
“How much?”
“ERSA was the test.”
“For what?”
“A larger structure.”
My phone rang.
June.
I answered immediately.
She was crying.
“Mr. Blackwell.”
“What happened?”
“Someone was in my apartment.”
“Are you there?”
“No. I'm outside.”
“Call the police.”
“They didn't take the television.”
“What did they take?”
“The box.”
“What box?”
Silence.
Then June said:
“The one Mrs. Blackwell gave me before the key.”
I closed my eyes.
“You told me she only gave you the key.”
“I was scared.”
“What was in the box?”
“I don't know.”
“You never opened it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she told me not to.”
“What did it look like?”
“Blue. About the size of a book.”
My father was watching me.
And something in his face changed when June described it.
Recognition.
I ended the call.
“What was in the blue box?”
He looked away.
“What box?”
I grabbed his shirt.
It was the first time in my life I had touched my father in anger.
“What was Emily hiding?”
His eyes met mine.
“Proof that ERSA wasn't stealing thousands from employees.”
A pause.
May you like
“It was laundering millions through them.”
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