PART 2 — THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Nobody spoke.
The phone was still sitting in the middle of the dinner table.
Tim Foster’s voice had just filled the room.
“Mr. Anderson, I received your request. I’ll handle it immediately.”
Tony stared at the phone.
Then he looked at me.
“Mr. Anderson?”
I said nothing.
Tim continued.
“Regarding the Maple Street redevelopment project, I need confirmation. You want us to suspend the entire acquisition process?”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
“Immediately.”
There was a long silence.
Tony suddenly pushed his chair back.
“Wait!”
Tim heard him.
“Is Mr. Martinez there?”
I looked at Tony.
“Yes.”
Tim sighed.
“Then perhaps we should have a conversation in person.”
I ended the call.
The room remained silent.
Cynthia was the first to speak.
“Rick… what is going on?”
I looked at her.
“That’s a good question.”
Harold frowned.
“Who are you?”
I almost laughed.
“I’m still Rick Anderson.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“I never asked you to believe anything.”
Tony was staring at me.
“You’re…”
He stopped.
His face had gone pale.
I waited.
Finally, he whispered,
“Who are you?”
I stepped away from the table.
“The same man you’ve known for six years.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It does.”
I looked directly at him.
“I’m Emily’s father.”
Tony shook his head.
“You live on Maple Street.”
“Yes.”
“You drive that old pickup.”
“Yes.”
“You repair appliances for people.”
“Yes.”
“You cut coupons.”
“Sometimes.”
His breathing became heavier.
“Then why did Tim Foster call you Mr. Anderson?”
I smiled.
“Because that’s my name.”
Tony’s eyes widened.
“No…”
I took a slow breath.
“Rick Anderson.”
Then I said the words I had deliberately kept hidden for six years.
“Chairman of Anderson Holdings.”
Nobody moved.
Cynthia’s hand froze halfway to her wineglass.
Harold slowly sat down.
Emily closed her eyes.
But Tony…
Tony looked as if the floor had disappeared beneath him.
“No,” he whispered.
I said nothing.
“You can’t be…”
“I am.”
“You’re the Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“The Anderson Holdings?”
“Yes.”
Tony stepped backward.
“The company that owns…”
“Several companies.”
His eyes moved toward the documents on the table.
Then toward the brochure for Cedar Ridge Senior Living.
Then back to me.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
The old truck.
The worn boots.
The modest house.
The cheap grocery coupons.
Every little thing he had laughed about.
Every insult.
Every condescending smile.
Every time he had explained business to me as if I were a confused old man.
I had allowed all of it.
Because I wanted to know what kind of man my daughter had married.
And now I knew.
* * *
“Why?” Tony finally asked.
I looked at him.
“Why did you pretend to be nobody?”
“Because people behave differently around money.”
Tony swallowed.
“I wanted to see who you really were.”
“And?”
I glanced at the documents.
“Now I know.”
Emily slowly stood.
“Dad…”
I turned toward her.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked confused.
“For what?”
“For allowing this to happen.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You didn't do this.”
“I knew Tony was ambitious.”
I paused.
“I didn't know how far he was willing to go.”
Tony stepped toward her.
“Emily, please.”
She turned away.
“Don't.”
“Let me explain.”
“You tried to take my father's house.”
“I was trying to solve a business problem.”
She stared at him.
“By sending him to a retirement community?”
Tony looked down.
“That wasn't how it was supposed to…”
“You put power-of-attorney documents in front of him.”
Silence.
“You wanted him to sign away control of his own property.”
“I thought he would agree.”
“Why?”
Tony had no answer.
I did.
“Because he thought I was powerless.”
Tony looked at me.
I held his gaze.
“And that's your biggest mistake.”
* * *
Harold suddenly slammed his hand against the table.
“This is ridiculous!”
Everyone turned toward him.
“You can't destroy a man's career over a family disagreement.”
I looked at him calmly.
“This isn't a family disagreement.”
Harold hesitated.
“This is corporate misconduct.”
Cynthia immediately defended her husband.
“Tony was acting for the company.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He was acting for himself.”
I picked up the acquisition documents.
“These offers were designed to pressure elderly homeowners into selling below market value.”
Tony's expression changed.
“That isn't true.”
“I have copies.”
I pulled a second envelope from my jacket.
Tony stared at it.
“Where did you get those?”
“I own the company.”
He said nothing.
“I receive reports.”
I placed the envelope on the table.
“Internal emails.”
Another envelope.
“Legal correspondence.”
Another.
“Purchase strategies.”
Tony's face became completely white.
“You've been investigating me?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I've been watching.”
He opened one of the envelopes.
His hands began to shake.
There were copies of emails he had sent to his executives.
One sentence was highlighted.
“The old man on Maple Street will eventually break. Keep increasing the pressure.”
Tony stared at it.
Emily read the sentence over his shoulder.
Her face changed.
She looked at her husband as if she no longer recognized him.
“You wrote that?”
Tony said nothing.
“You called my father ‘the old man’?”
Still nothing.
I took the document from his hand.
“You forgot something, Tony.”
“What?”
“The old man owned the company funding your entire project.”
Tony looked up.
“And now…”
I folded the document carefully.
“…he doesn't.”
His voice cracked.
“What does that mean?”
I picked up my coat.
“It means the Maple Street project is suspended.”
Tony stood.
“You can't do that.”
I smiled.
“I already did.”
“And my position?”
I stopped at the doorway.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
I looked back at him.
“On what I discover when I finish reviewing your accounts.”
Tony's face went blank.
Because for the first time that night, he realized something much worse than losing the project.
He might lose everything.
His job.
His reputation.
His career.
And possibly his marriage.
I opened the front door.
Then I heard Tony say something that made me stop.
“Mr. Anderson…”
I turned.
He was standing beside the table, trembling.
“There’s something you don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Tony looked toward Emily.
Then toward his parents.
And finally back at me.
“The Maple Street project wasn't my idea.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Then whose idea was it?”
Tony swallowed.
“I was following orders.”
“Whose orders?”
He hesitated.
Then whispered a name.
A name I hadn't heard in nearly twenty years.
And suddenly…
I understood that Tony Martinez wasn't the only person who had been hiding something from me.
