Chapter 9 - The Complaint

Martin didn't sound accusatory. That almost made it worse.

“Come in Monday morning,” he said. “Bring your complete record of the charter. We'll review the complaint with counsel. Do not contact the complainant yourself.”

I asked who had filed it. He paused. “A person identifying himself as Grant Whitmore.”

Of course.

Sunday night I sat on my apartment floor, surrounded by printed emails. The navy dress lay across the back of a chair, still inside its plastic cover. I'd bought it because Vanessa liked the color. I couldn't bring myself to put it away.

At nine, Priya arrived with takeout and two bottled waters. She wasn't the attorney handling the matter, and she made that clear, but she was my friend.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not really.”

She handed me rice and chicken. “Then start there.”

I told her about the complaint, the sponsorship invoice, the fake signature, and Dad's loan. She listened carefully.

“You can be generous,” she said, “without accepting liability for other people's decisions.”

“I keep feeling like I should have stopped all of this.”

“You didn't make Grant borrow money. You didn't make your mother sign. You didn't make Vanessa exclude you.”

I took a bite of food that tasted like cardboard. “I did sign the yacht contract.”

“And then you used the cancellation process it provided.”

On Monday morning, I walked into Bell & Mercer with a binder organized by date and source. Martin, the firm's counsel, and a compliance manager sat across the conference table. I explained the charter, the personal credit card, and the circumstances of the cancellation. I did not ask them to believe my feelings. I showed them records.

The complaint alleged that I'd misrepresented my employer as an event sponsor and used the firm's reputation for personal gain. The counsel slid the attachment toward me.

It was a one-page letter supposedly written by me, on Bell & Mercer letterhead.

I felt the blood rush to my face. “I never wrote this.”

Martin looked at the page. “Our document systems don't show it. The branding is outdated.”

The compliance manager asked, “Does Mr. Whitmore have access to your personal computer?”

“No.” Then I remembered something. “But Vanessa borrowed my laptop at Mom's house last month.”

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The room went quiet.

And suddenly I could picture exactly where she'd been sitting when she asked me for my password.