Hand over the company keys, Grandma. The board already voted — you’re a senile

I stood up slowly, smoothing my blazer. “Trevor, sweetheart,” I said, “before I sign anything, I’d like to introduce someone.” The double doors opened and in walked Marisol Reyes — my attorney of forty years — followed by a quiet man in a gray suit carrying a leather folio. “This is Agent Halloway from the Department of Labor,” I said. “And this is the forensic accountant I hired in January.” Trevor’s smile cracked like cheap porcelain. You see, six months ago, when Trevor started “helping” with payroll, I noticed something. Tiny amounts. Rounded cents skimmed from drivers’ overtime, funneled into a shell company registered in his girlfriend’s name. Two hundred and forty thousand dollars over eighteen months — stolen from the men and women who kept our trucks moving. I could have confronted him at Thanksgiving. Instead, I let him keep digging. I let him whisper to the board. I let him draft his little resignation letter for me, because I wanted every director to see, in real time, exactly who they’d been listening to. Marisol slid a thick binder across the table. “Bank records. Wire transfers. Forged signatures. The board’s vote is void under Section 7 of our bylaws — a director under active criminal investigation cannot cast a tiebreaker.” Trevor stood up so fast his chair hit the window. “Grandma — Eleanor — we can talk about this—” “We did talk,” I said softly. “Every Sunday for thirty years. You stopped listening around the time you learned the word inheritance.” Agent Halloway stepped forward with the paperwork. The directors who’d voted against me suddenly couldn’t meet my eyes. I picked up Trevor’s resignation letter, tore it neatly in half, and dropped it in front of him. “You were right about one thing,” I said, settling back into my chair at the head of the table. “Someone in this room can’t read a balance sheet. Security will walk you out.” Then I turned to the board. “Now. Shall we discuss the drivers’ back pay?”