TERMS OF SURRENDER

“Tell Michael Grant that if he doesn't take my call, I'll make sure his father hears what happened before the board does.” Hargrove's voice carried across the executive floor. Two employees slowed near the elevators, while the security officer behind him reached for his radio. I caught the officer's eye and shook my head. “Mr. Hargrove, your meeting was postponed.” He planted both hands on my desk. “Do you have any idea how much money your boss is about to lose?” “Enough that I'd rather you didn't announce it to everyone on this floor.” I stood, keeping my voice low. “Show me what brought you here.” “You expect me to trust his secretary?” “I expect you to give me the document you're threatening to take to his father.” He pulled a folded letter from his jacket and slapped it onto the desk. Grant Industries had apparently terminated an eighty-six-million-dollar development agreement. Michael's electronic authorization appeared beneath the notice, but the reference number belonged to a revised agreement that hadn't been signed. “Who sent this?” I asked, checking the date. “Your legal department. Six this morning.” “Have you shown anyone outside your company?” “Not yet. But Grant has ten minutes before that changes.” “Then give me those ten minutes.” I kept the letter on my desk and gestured toward the conference rooms. “I'll check the authorization. You can wait somewhere private, or we can continue this conversation in front of your competitors when they arrive for the investor briefing.” Hargrove glanced toward the elevators. After a moment, he followed the security officer to conference room three. I called Daniel in Legal while opening the contract register. “That notice wasn't approved for release,” he said after checking the reference. “It's a contingency draft.” “Preserve the transmission record and contact Hargrove's counsel. We need to know whether someone sent it by mistake or used Michael's authorization without permission.” “I'll get on it. Have you told Michael?” “I'm going in now.” The red light beside Michael's office door was still on. He'd warned me against interruptions that morning, but I knocked with the notice in my hand. “Come in.” Michael sat behind his desk reviewing financial reports. Nathan Foster occupied the opposite chair, a coffee cup balanced on his knee. “I thought we agreed on eleven,” Michael said. “We did. Hargrove is here with a termination notice bearing your authorization.” Michael held out his hand. As he read, Nathan set down his coffee. “Where is Hargrove?” Michael asked. “Conference room three. Legal confirms the notice was an unreleased draft. Daniel's checking who transmitted it.” “Has Hargrove contacted anyone?” “Not outside his company, according to him. He also threatened to call your father.” Michael's fingers stopped against the paper. “Did he?” “He wants to see you immediately.” “Then he can wait twenty minutes.” Michael pushed the notice toward me. “Have Daniel bring me the distribution record before I speak to him.” “I've asked him to preserve it.” Nathan hid a smile behind his cup, but Michael was already turning back to his screen. “Maggie,” he called as I reached the door. “Good work keeping him off the floor.” “Thank you.” “And find out who released that notice.” “Already in progress.” Back at my desk, I moved two investor calls and opened an urgent message from the estate manager. Mr. Richard Grant requests confirmation of Mr. Michael Grant's attendance at next Saturday's family reception. The itinerary beneath it named the venue: GRANT FAMILY ESTATE — NORTH RESIDENCE. My hand stopped over the keyboard as the smell of floor polish and damp wool returned without warning. Somewhere behind me, a door slammed, followed by a man's raised voice. The telephone rang, and I reached for it too quickly, knocking my pen onto the carpet. “Maggie?” Nathan had stepped out of Michael's office. I picked up the pen before looking at him. “Did you need something?” “The revised Singapore figures.” “They're in Michael's secure folder. I sent them at eight.” “Of course you did.” Nathan glanced at the estate invitation on my monitor. “Another family gathering? He'll be unbearable for a week.” I closed the message. Nathan hesitated. “Everything all right?” “Just a busy morning.” Once he went back inside, I checked my phone. Mum had sent a reminder about her prescription. The clinic's new estimate was higher than Friday's, and next month's payment would take money from the savings account I'd promised not to touch. I'll handle it, Mum, I typed, then put the phone away before I could calculate the balance again. My desk phone rang. “Michael Grant's office.” “Margaret Collins?” The woman sounded older, her words carefully controlled. “Speaking.” “This is Evelyn Mercer at the Grant estate. I need to speak with Mr. Grant privately.” “Is this about Saturday's reception?” “No. It's about his father.” I looked toward Michael's closed door. “Is Richard Grant all right?” “Please put me through to his son.” I placed her on hold and went inside. “Evelyn Mercer is calling from the estate. She says it's urgent.” Michael reached for the telephone on his desk. “Evelyn? What's happened?” His hand tightened around the receiver as he listened. He pushed his chair back slightly, then leaned forward, resting his free hand against the edge of the desk. “When?” he asked. Nathan rose from his seat, watching Michael. Michael pressed his thumb against his forehead. “Was anyone with him?” He listened to the answer before lowering his hand. “Don't call Priscilla yet. I'll speak to the attorney first.” When he hung up, Nathan moved closer. “Michael?” “My father collapsed at the estate. They've taken him to the hospital.” Michael stood and reached for his jacket. “Maggie, get the car downstairs. Cancel everything after eleven.” “Is he conscious?” Nathan asked. “They wouldn't tell me.” Michael turned to me. “Find out which hospital. And ask the estate who was there when it happened.” I called the driver, then dialed the household number Evelyn had used. A man answered on the fourth ring. “Grant residence.” “This is Margaret Collins from Michael Grant's office. Where has Richard Grant been taken?” “Did you say Margaret Collins?” “Yes. I'm his son's executive assistant.” The man drew a breath close to the receiver. “Rose Collins's daughter?” I hadn't mentioned my mother. “Who is this?” Instead of answering, he called across the room. “Someone here needs to know. It's the Collins girl.” Footsteps hurried toward him. A woman spoke before taking the telephone. “She's with Michael?” “Who are you?” I demanded. “Margaret,” she said, her voice suddenly close, “does Michael know what happened to you in this house five years ago?” My chair struck the cabinet as I stood. Behind me, Michael's door opened. “Maggie, is the car ready?” The woman heard him. “He doesn't know,” she whispered. I turned away from Michael, pressing the receiver harder against my ear. “What do you want from me?” “If Richard dies, they'll come looking for something your mother hid. They'll believe you have it.” “What did she hide?” The woman's breathing quickened. “Margaret, the man who pushed you down those stairs is still looking for it.” I looked toward Michael, who was waiting for an answer about the car. “And now,” the woman said, “he knows exactly where you work.”