“Am I on it?”
Mr. Grant looked at her steadily. “You are a beneficiary.”
She covered her mouth again. “If I’m removed—”
“Your inheritance would be redistributed according to the trust.”
“To whom?”
Mr. Grant looked over at me, and I felt my stomach drop entirely, some cold, sudden weight settling into it.
“That is between Hazel and the trustee,” he said.
My father suddenly laughed, a bitter, humorless sound that didn’t belong anywhere near an arrivals terminal. “You think this is going to work?”
Mr. Grant didn’t respond right away. My father stepped closer to him. “You think you can destroy my company because of one stupid vacation?”
“No.” Mr. Grant looked him directly in the eye, unflinching. “This isn’t about the vacation.” He placed one final document on top of the suitcase. “The vacation is simply the first time Hazel’s family made the mistake of leaving evidence in writing.”
