Chapter 5 - Monday Morning
I went to the trust meeting.
My parents expected me not to.
Sophie had been discharged Sunday afternoon.
She stayed with Rachel while I went downtown Monday morning.
The conference room was on the thirty-second floor of Whitmore Hospitality headquarters.
Preston sat beside his attorney.
A bandage covered the small scrape on his hand from the broken menu stand.
Seeing it made my stomach turn.
My father sat at the head of the table.
My mother beside him.
Neither looked at me.
The trust counsel began.
“Before the property vote, we have an emergency motion regarding Evelyn Whitmore’s position as trustee for Sophie Whitmore.”
I almost laughed.
They really did it.
My father folded his hands.
“Saturday demonstrated serious concerns about Evelyn’s judgment.”
I stared at him.
“My daughter was hospitalized.”
“And we regret that.”
My mother spoke softly.
“But the incident began because Sophie took Preston’s phone.”
“No.”
Preston leaned back.
“Here we go.”
I placed a flash drive on the table.
“There is CCTV.”
The room changed.
My father’s eyes went to Preston.
My mother did the same.
Not to me.
To him.
That told me everything.
The trust attorney cleared his throat.
“I have received notice from law enforcement that video evidence exists.”
Preston’s attorney spoke quickly.
“Any criminal investigation is unresolved.”
“Correct.”
I looked at the trustees.
“But the video is not.”
I had legal permission to show the relevant clip through my attorney.
The screen lit up.
Preston planting the phone.
Natalie watching.
Preston retrieving it.
The oak board.
I stopped before impact.
Nobody moved.
One independent trustee removed his glasses.
Another whispered:
“Jesus.”
My father finally spoke.
“Preston.”
My brother’s face hardened.
“It looks worse than it was.”
I stared at him.
“What would worse look like?”
His attorney told him not to answer.
The emergency motion against me died immediately.
Then came the property vote.
My father asked to postpone.
I objected.
The independent trustees agreed with me.
The vote continued.
My 20 percent.
Sophie’s 20 percent.
Two independent trust blocks totaling another 18 percent.
Sale rejected.
58 percent against.
42 percent for.
Preston slammed his folder shut.
“You think you won?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“This isn’t winning.”
“This is stopping you.”
As he walked out, he leaned close enough that only I could hear.
“You have no idea what you just cost us.”
Us.
Not me.
Not the family.
Us.
I looked toward my parents.
They were both staring at the rejected sale documents.
For the first time, I understood.
They were not defending Preston because he was the golden child.
Not only because of that.
They needed that sale.
Badly.
May you like
The question was why.
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