The past is the past, Isaiah. Ancient history has no place in modern business. Ancient history? Isaiah repeated thoughtfully. Like employment records from 31 years ago? Conrad’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course you do. You just mentioned that I was digging through old records.

Which specific records concerned you enough to monitor my activities? The dining room fell completely silent except for the distant hum of traffic 15 floors below. Conrad set down his fork and stared directly at Isaiah. All pretense of friendliness gone. Let me be very clear, Conrad said, his voice turning ice cold. If you don’t restore our deal and sign that non-disclosure agreement, I will destroy you.

I’ll have your business licenses challenged in every state where you operate. I’ll make sure every bank in the country questions your integrity. And I’ll make absolutely sure that every newspaper in America knows the real story about your thieving mother. Isaiah’s expression never changed, but his right hand moved slightly, adjusting his cufflink to ensure optimal recording position.

Under his state’s consent laws, he could legally record any conversation he was part of. Tell me about my mother’s real story, Isaiah said quietly. Althea Mercer was a criminal who stole company money to cover her gambling debts. She was fired, disgraced, and died knowing everyone saw her for what she really was, a liar and a thief. Interesting.

How do you know so much about her employment termination? That was your father’s company and you would have been 28 at the time. Conrad realized his mistake immediately. His knowledge of specific details about Althea’s case suggested involvement that went beyond casual family history. I reviewed the files when I took over the company. Conrad said quickly.

Which files? I thought all employment records from that period were destroyed in a fire. Conrad’s face flushed red. They were, but but you just threatened to make her story famous again. How can you publicize records that no longer exist? At the hotel bar 30 ft away, visible through the dining room’s glass partition, Renata Harlan sat nursing a martini while typing rapidly on her phone.

Isaiah noticed her presence but gave no indication he’d seen her. Conrad stood abruptly abandoning any attempt at diplomacy. You have 72 hours to restore our deal, Isaiah. After that, I promise you’ll regret ever hearing the Harlan name. Isaiah rose calmly straightening his jacket. Thank you for dinner, Conrad and for the conversation.

He walked toward the exit without looking back knowing that every word had been captured clearly on his recording device. Conrad’s threats, his knowledge of supposedly destroyed documents, and his intimate familiarity with Althea Mercer’s case were now preserved as evidence. As Isaiah stepped into the hotel elevator, he caught a glimpse of Renata through the closing doors still typing urgently on her phone.

Her fingers moved with the speed of someone delivering critical information to a contact who needed to act quickly. The elevator descended in silence, carrying Isaiah toward the hotel’s marble lobby and the valet station where his car waited. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the city’s evening traffic flowing along the streets below, including a familiar black SUV idling near the hotel’s side entrance.

Isaiah collected his keys from the valet, tipped the young man respectfully, and walked to his car without hurrying. As he pulled out of the hotel’s circular driveway and merged into traffic, the black SUV fell into position three cars behind him, its headlights reflecting steadily in his rearview mirror. 20 minutes after leaving Conrad’s hotel, Isaiah sat in his car outside Roland Pierce’s downtown office building, speaking quietly into his phone.

The evening rain drummed against his windshield, while streetlights cast wavering reflections on the wet pavement. Roland, I need you and Grace ready to move tonight. We’re going to the storage property. After what? Conrad just threatened. Roland’s voice carried the sharp edge of a man who’d spent decades reading danger signs.

That sounds like exactly what they want us to do. It’s what we have to do. Conrad knows too much about records that supposedly don’t exist. If those files are still there, they won’t be tomorrow. Within 30 minutes, Roland had collected Grace from her modest apartment across town.

She sat in the passenger seat of Roland’s sedan, clutching a worn leather purse and st- staring out at the industrial landscape rolling past the windows. I should have given you the key years ago, Grace said quietly. I should have spoken up when Althea was still alive. You’re speaking up now, Isaiah replied from the backseat, his voice steady and reassuring.

That’s what matters. The storage facility sat on the outskirts of Harlan Harbor, surrounded by empty lots, chain-link fencing, and and skeletal remains of old warehouses. Rain-slicked streets reflected the glow of distant harbor lights as Roland navigated through a maze of industrial roads.

“Black SUV behind us,” Roland said calmly, checking his mirrors. “Same one from the hotel.” Isaiah turned to look through the rear window. The vehicle maintained a steady distance, its headlights cutting through the rain like predatory eyes. “Take Harbor Junction Road,” Isaiah instructed. “There’s a side road through the old shipping district.

” Roland made the turn onto a narrow road lined with abandoned loading docks and rusted shipping containers. The SUV followed, but as they approached a particularly dark stretch near an old rail crossing, it suddenly accelerated. “Hold on,” Roland warned. The SUV pulled alongside them, forcing Roland toward the shoulder. He fought the steering wheel as their car skidded on the wet asphalt, tires squealing against the pavement.

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