Then apparently came under pressure from the board.
One memo, written eleven days before his death, said:
I will not sign the amended transfer.
The car stays off company property until this is resolved.
The CEO looked toward the prototype.
“He hid it here.”
The father nodded.
“Looks that way.”
The next document was a copy of a storage agreement.
Signed by her father.
Signed by the fabrication lead.
The garage was listed as temporary secure custody.
No corporation access without both signatures.
The CEO whispered:
“So the company never owned the car.”
“Not completely.”
“And we reported it stolen.”
“Someone did.”
The boy asked:
“Does that mean your company stole its own car?”
The CEO looked at him.
“No.”
Then reconsidered.
“Maybe.”
She opened the engineering notebook.
Her father’s handwriting covered the first page.
She knew it instantly.
Numbers.
Suspension geometry.
Cooling diagrams.
Tiny notes in margins.
Then personal comments.
Rear instability above 155.
Fabricator says mount is flexing.
Chairman wants Friday demonstration regardless.
Absolutely not.
She turned pages.
Halfway through, the handwriting changed.
The fabrication lead.
The two men had been using the same notebook.
Arguing in ink.
The founder wrote:
Battery placement forward.
The fabricator replied:
Only if you want driver cooked.
The founder:
Drama.
The fabricator:
Engineering.
The CEO laughed.
A small involuntary sound.
Her father suddenly existed in the room in a way no museum exhibit had managed.
Not founder.
Not legend.
A man arguing with another man about heat shielding.
She wiped one eye.
The father pretended not to notice.
Then she reached the final pages.
The tone changed.
Chairman moved files from Lab 3 without authorization.
Patent counsel says new transfer draft contains language we never approved.
Fabricator found duplicate build sheets with his name removed.
Then:
If something happens before Monday, take Twelve off-site.
The CEO stopped.
Read again.
The father leaned closer.
“What?”
She showed him.
His face changed.
The boy whispered:
“Something happened.”
The CEO’s hand shook.
The founder died on Sunday night.
The meeting referred to in the note would have been Monday morning.
The CEO closed the notebook.
“No.”
The father spoke carefully.
“We don’t know what it means.”
“I do.”
“No.”
She turned on him.
“My father wrote ‘if something happens.’ Then he died.”
“That does not prove someone killed him.”