Page 95 of Ugly Truths
That afternoon, we sat across from Luke Keeley, the CEO of a small biotech firm that had developed a promising anti-inflammatory drug. William wanted Wells to manufacture it, and Keeley didn’t want to sell.
Keeley came prepared with charts and projections that explained the very logical reasons his company wants to retain production rights. He was willing to compromise with licensing tiers and potential shared oversight. My father listened and nodded at all the right moments.
Then, William leaned back and swirled the whiskey in his glass. He placated Keeley, but didn't fail to mention how much of a shame it was that he had heard rumors of their grant discrepancies. Just a few vague concerns he’d “come across” prior to this meeting.
My father laid out the facts, one after another, of the research grant that ultimately funded luxury lab equipment and a recruitment event in Bermuda. Keeley’s composure slipped with each statement until the man looked as though he were on the verge of being sick. The man scurried out of the private dining room before dessert, and William couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
The deal was finalized just weeks later. Wells received everything it asked for, and Keeley was appointed to the advisory board with a feature in the press release written by our public relations team.
I asked my father if he really thought stiff-arming a small company like this was the right move. He didn’t hesitate to tell me that Wells had the capacity, distribution channels, and relationships to get the drug out to people faster. Smaller companies could only take an idea like this so far before it died in committee, and we could get it through the red tape while keeping it out of competitors' hands.
He had the numbers to support it. Months of research conducted by our internal teams confirmed that this was a great move for Wells. William was convinced that the benefits outweighed the risks, and I believed him.
The Hawthorne Club became the place where I’d sit beside my father and watch him dismantle companies. Its strict privacy policies made it all so much easier. We acquired many promising products this way—drugs, devices, patents—you name it. We had the resources they needed to do what they couldn’t. I told myself these facts made it right. We were the good guys, weeding out the bad businesses without letting their best ideas go to waste.
How did I ever believe we were the good guys?
I pass through the unmarked side entrance, nodding at the concierge who doesn’t bother to ask for my name. The corridor is dimly lit, with lined with polished wood panels that gleam under the soft light and ornate-looking carpeting that muffled our footsteps.
A staff member in a sharp black suit waits at the end of the hall, hands clasped behind their back. They nod as I approach and gesture to the door.
Room 8.
They press their thumb to the hidden scanner beside the door, and it unlocks. I step inside, and the door closes behind me with the same soft precision.
Two of the private dining room’s walls are lined with dark wood shelves and meaningless leather-bound books, while the far wall holds large privacy windows that face the backside of a community garden. There’s a single discreet service door in the corner, which is only ever unlocked when prompted by the guest. In the center of the room is a large rectangular table covered in a bright white tablecloth and a chandelier overhead that drips with glass.
My father sits at the head of the table facing the door. Natalie is to his left, her posture impossibly straight. When our eyes meet, she gives me a small glimpse of the anger she’s kept locked away since arriving thirty minutes ago.
William’s fork is halfway to his mouth when he finally looks up. His expression hardens before he sets his utensil down, and it clinks against the fine china.
“Interrupting a private lunch, Silas? That’s beneath you,” he says, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin in his lap.
I pull out the chair across from Natalie, then fold into the seat and unbutton my jacket.
“I invited him,” Natalie responds. Her gaze doesn’t waver from our father. “We need to clear the air.”
William blinks, his surprise fleeting before it’s replaced by something far too smug. He leans back in his chair.
“Ah,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “A family intervention.” He chuckles softly, as though the idea is amusing. “Let me guess; you two want to mend fences before January? Natalie, I didn’t realize you had such a diplomatic streak.”
Of course, he can’t imagine Natalie could be anything but a mediator. I remain silent, letting him dig his own grave.
“You’re right, Dad,” she says smoothly. “I wanted to talk about the family and how we move forward from here.”
I want to wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face with my bare hands. “I’m glad to hear that.” His voice drips with false sincerity. “This frictionbetween Silas and me is unnecessary. I’ve been saying that for months. I think we can start focusing on—”
William’s words falter as his gaze follows Natalie’s movement. She reaches down to the briefcase hidden under her chair, sets it on the table, and clicks it open. Inside, there’s a thick stack of documents in various folders. With bold hands, she pulls them from the case and lets them land on the open area of the table closest to our father with a dullslap.
He frowns. “What’s this?”
“This,” Natalie says, her voice losing its familial edge, “is the truth.”
She slides the top folder closer to him. He picks it up, his frown deepening as he scans the first page. First comes the shock—a slight widening of his eyes, a twitch in his jaw—but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the rage I’ve come to expect. He glances at the next pages, his agitation growing with every turn.
“What is this?” he repeats, fingers curling to the paper.
Natalie opens another folder in the stack and taps her perfectly manicured nail on a line of text near the top. “Davey found some interesting reading materials while conducting the server audit,” she answers. “Apparently, they’re a treasure trove of secrets.”
