Chapter 3 - Sixty Percent
Thomas Bell lived on a five-acre property outside town.
When Atlas saw his truck, he wagged his tail.
That mattered to me.
Whatever role Thomas had played in Atlas’s disappearance, the dog didn’t fear him.
Thomas stepped onto the porch.
He was seventy-two, broad-shouldered despite his age, with silver hair and the weathered hands of a man who had spent his life repairing things.
Atlas walked to him.
Thomas knelt slowly.
“There you are, troublemaker.”
Atlas licked his cheek.
Thomas laughed once, but his eyes were wet.
Then he looked at me.
“He never stopped looking down the road.”
We sat at his kitchen table.
Atlas settled between us.
Thomas told me the entire story.
Seven years earlier, Grant had approached him through a mutual acquaintance.
Thomas had recently lost his wife.
Grant said he knew of a dog that needed a quiet home.
“He said the family didn’t want him anymore.”
“My family?”
“He didn’t give a name.”
“Did Grant tell you his?”
“No. He called himself Greg.”
Of course he did.
Thomas disappeared into another room and returned carrying an envelope.
“I kept this.”
Inside was a handwritten note.
Dog is vaccinated. Three years old. Responds to Atlas. Please keep him away from industrial areas because loud machinery frightens him.
I recognized Grant’s handwriting immediately.
He had written dozens of birthday cards to me.
Signed hundreds of internal plant documents.
There was no question.
My brother had given my dog away.
The same night Mom entered the hospital.
“Why?” I whispered.
Thomas shook his head.
“I’ve wondered that since I realized something was wrong.”
“When did you realize?”
“About six months later.”
He explained that Atlas escaped and ran nearly ten miles before animal control caught him near the industrial district.
Thomas retrieved him.
Then it happened again two years later.
Same direction.
Toward our plant.
“I started thinking he had belonged somewhere around there.”
“Why didn’t you contact Holloway Packaging?”
“I did.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who answered?”
“A man.”
“What did he say?”
“That nobody there had ever owned a dog named Atlas.”
“Did he give his name?”
Thomas looked apologetic.
“No.”
But we both knew.
I photographed Grant’s handwritten note.
Then Thomas handed me something else.
A veterinary record.
Atlas had been treated for an injured neck two days after Grant gave him away.
The vet recorded bruising consistent with being restrained forcefully by the collar.
I had to stop reading.
Thomas noticed.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do this.”
“No.”
He looked down at Atlas.
“But I wish I’d asked more questions.”
We agreed Atlas would stay with me.
Thomas hugged him for a long time before we left.
“You found your girl,” he whispered.
On my drive back to the plant, I received three calls from Grant.
I ignored all of them.
Then Celia texted.
Emergency board discussion at 11. You need to attend.
There was no formal board.
Holloway Packaging was privately held.
Grant liked calling executive meetings “board meetings” because it made him feel important.
At eleven, I walked into Conference Room B with Atlas beside me.
Grant stood immediately.
“You cannot bring that dog inside.”
“He’s staying.”
“This is a manufacturing facility.”
“He’s in the administrative building.”
“He’s still an animal.”
I sat.
Atlas lay beneath my chair.
Celia avoided looking at him.
Grant placed a folder on the table.
“The loading dock accident has created liability exposure.”
“Almost killing me does sound inconvenient.”
“Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
He exhaled.
“We need stability.”
“You mean my signature.”
“I mean a decision.”
He pushed the buyout contract toward me again.
The number had changed.
It was now twenty percent higher.
Interesting.
“You increased the offer.”
“Because I’m trying to be fair.”
“You weren’t trying yesterday?”
Celia interrupted.
“Claire, emotions are understandably high.”
“Mine aren’t.”
“Three tons of steel nearly landed on you.”
“And yet somehow I can still read numbers.”
Grant leaned forward.
“What do you want?”
“The actual valuation.”
“This is the actual valuation.”
“No, it isn’t.”
His face changed slightly.
I continued.
“The land is worth more than your entire offer.”
“That’s not how business valuation works.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I also know Meriton Industrial Consulting received eight hundred forty thousand dollars from Holloway Packaging in eleven months.”
Silence.
Celia stopped breathing.
Grant’s eyes moved toward her.
Tiny movement.
Huge mistake.
I looked at Celia.
“So you know the name.”
She recovered quickly.
“Of course. They’re a contractor.”
“What do they do?”
“Efficiency consulting.”
“Who is our account representative?”
“I’d need to check.”
“What’s their office address?”
“Claire—”
“How many employees?”
Grant slammed his palm onto the table.
“Enough.”
Atlas stood.
Grant’s anger disappeared instantly.
The dog stared at him.
Grant lowered his hand.
I almost smiled.
“You should sit down,” I said.
He did.
I pulled copies of invoices from my bag.
Every payment had been approved by Celia.
Several carried Grant’s digital authorization.
“You’ve been spying.”
“I’ve been reviewing company records.”
“You work reception.”
“I own sixty percent.”
There it was again.
The truth he hated.
Grant’s authority existed because I allowed it.
Not because he legally controlled anything.
I continued.
“Effective immediately, no payment above ten thousand dollars leaves the company without my written authorization.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“This is insane.”
“No. What’s insane is paying nearly a million dollars to a company with no office and no employees.”
Celia’s face had turned pale.
Grant stood.
“We’re done.”
“I’m not.”
He stared at me.
I placed the photograph of his handwritten note beside the invoices.
Grant looked down.
His entire body froze.
“I met Thomas Bell this morning.”
No response.
“He kept your note.”
Grant looked toward Atlas.
The dog stepped closer to me.
“You told Thomas my family abandoned Atlas.”
Grant swallowed.
“Claire—”
“You stole my dog.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then explain it.”
Celia looked between us.
“This isn’t relevant to the company.”
I turned toward her.
“Maybe not.”
Then I looked back at Grant.
“But I’m starting to think everything is relevant.”
Grant’s voice dropped.
“You have no idea what Mom was doing before she died.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“What does that mean?”
He hesitated.
Then smiled.
Not warmly.
The kind of smile he used when he believed he had found leverage.
“Ask yourself why she really gave you sixty percent.”
“My being her daughter might have had something to do with it.”
“No.”
He leaned closer.
“She gave you control because she was afraid.”
“Of what?”
Grant stared at Atlas.
Then at me.
“Of what you would discover if I had control after she died.”
I waited.
“What would I discover?”
His smile disappeared.
“I think you should stop asking.”
That was Grant’s second mistake.
Because seven years earlier, warnings frightened me.
Now they only confirmed I was close.
May you like
And by the end of that day, I would discover that someone had begun deleting records from the company server.
Someone who knew exactly which financial files I had been reading.
