Walter finally took the paper from my hand. "This isn't a conversation for the hallway."
He was right — people had started glancing our way. He led us to a smaller boardroom down the corridor, pale oak walls, a view of the river below turning silver under moving clouds.
He closed the door and set the document on the table. "Claire deserves the truth. All of it."
"All of it," I repeated, and something in my stomach tightened at the words.
Walter sat, looking older than he had that morning. "Your mother," he began, "never cared for the family business the way people expected. She loved questions. Systems. Patterns. She used to say the future wouldn't be decided by the loudest invention, but by the quietest assumption."
I hadn't heard that sentence in eleven years. My mother used to say it at breakfast, tapping her spoon against her coffee cup while my father pretended to follow along and winked at me over the newspaper. For a second I could smell cinnamon toast.
