Howard’s letter stopped mid sentence, so I finished it aloud. “It looks like someone is stealing from us.” The bank record traced one million four hundred thousand dollars out of the operating account over eleven months, into a firm called Brightwater, owned by Colette and her brother Neil. Spencer had lost his savings in a failing resort investment and hidden it from his father. They offered him a way out: sell to Skyline, cover the hole, split the rest. Curtis had searched our private records until he found the trust under my maiden name.

The officers were there because of Lionel. Ten days earlier, a forensic accountant confirmed everything, and Lionel took the file to the district attorney while I waited for the ceremony. I had let their ceremony become the trap. Once they put the pen in my hand, the page eleven clause and the cameras would hand prosecutors their own proof. Curtis tried to leave, but Pete Dawson and four mechanics had quietly blocked the side door. Neil never reached the exit. Both men were led out in front of everyone.

Spencer broke first. He took the microphone and told two hundred fifty people he had stolen from his own father and planned to sign away his mother’s company at his father’s memorial. “Mom, I was drowning, and they said you would never notice,” he said. I did not forgive him on the spot. I told the room that Wexford Holdings holds fifty-three percent of Lawson Regional Aviation, that the company was not for sale, and that Spencer was removed from every role.

Spencer pleaded guilty, received probation, and repays every dollar from his own salary. Curtis and Neil were convicted, and Colette testified against them. I made Pete director of operations, and the Howard Lawson carried its first passengers that summer. Weeks later, I finally boarded my flight to Phoenix with Howard’s jacket over my arm. My sister asked what took so long. “I had to finish something first,” I said.