Chapter 2 - THE EMPLOYEE MY BROTHER THOUGHT DIDN’T MATTER
At 7:30 the next morning, I called Peterson Tech’s general counsel, Miriam Sloan.
By 8:15, she had hired an outside investigative firm.
By 9:00, Derek’s access to financial systems had been suspended.
I did not fire him.
I did not call him.
I did not warn him.
That mattered.
Family members had spent years telling me that boundaries were cruelty whenever those boundaries applied to Derek.
I was finished participating.
Miriam entered my office carrying a red folder.
“There are five complaints.”
“Dad said three.”
“There were three formal complaints.”
“And the others?”
“Employees who started talking after they learned outside counsel was involved.”
I opened the folder.
The first complaint came from Jenna Morales, twenty-eight, senior sales analyst.
She alleged that Derek redirected commissions from junior employees onto accounts assigned to himself.
The second claimed he pressured staff to backdate customer agreements so quarterly revenue looked higher.
The third described him throwing a laptop against a conference-room wall after an employee challenged a forecast.
The fourth involved a salesman named Aaron Price who had been terminated six months earlier.
His offense?
Refusing to approve an invoice for a customer that apparently did not exist.
The fifth complaint stopped me.
It came from a twenty-two-year-old new hire named Caleb Rhodes.
Derek had made him cry during a sales meeting.
When Caleb tried to leave the room, Derek allegedly said:
“If you can’t take pressure, you don’t belong with men who make real money.”
I leaned back.
Same language.
Different victim.
Toughen up.
Stop crying.
Real men.
I thought about Mr. Bamboo burning in my parents’ backyard.
My brother had not suddenly become cruel at a family barbecue.
He had simply stopped hiding what he already practiced elsewhere.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
Miriam looked uncomfortable.
“HR escalated two incidents to Sales Operations.”
“Who buried them?”
“We’re determining that.”
“Did anybody use my name?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
Miriam turned her laptop toward me.
An email.
From an address designed to look like mine.
Not our domain.
Close enough to fool someone moving quickly.
The email said:
Derek has my full backing. Handle performance issues within Sales and avoid unnecessary HR escalation.
My name appeared beneath it.
VIRGIL HOLLOWAY
EXECUTIVE CHAIRMAN
I stared.
“I never sent this.”
“We know.”
“Who did?”
“Registered through a privacy service.”
“When?”
“Eleven months ago.”
Derek had been using a fake executive email to make people believe I protected him.
My hands tightened.
Miriam continued.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
“Hawthorne Strategic Services received monthly consulting fees plus success bonuses tied to Derek’s region.”
“Who approved the vendor?”
“Sales Operations.”
“Beneficial owner?”
“We’re still tracing it.”
“Dad signed documents.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
My phone rang.
Derek.
I let it ring.
Again.
Again.
Then a text:
ANSWER YOUR PHONE BEFORE THESE PEOPLE DESTROY WHAT YOU BUILT.
Interesting choice of words.
Not what I built.
What you built.
Another message:
JENNA IS LYING.
Then:
DAD DIDN’T TELL YOU EVERYTHING.
I showed Miriam.
“Save those.”
“Already did.”
At 10:40, the outside investigator arrived.
At 11:15, Jenna Morales sat across from me.
She looked terrified.
Not of the investigator.
Of me.
That bothered me.
“I want you to understand something,” I said. “Derek being my brother gives him no protection here.”
She looked at Miriam.
Then back at me.
“He said you would say that.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“He said if an investigation ever happened, you’d pretend you didn’t know.”
The room became very quiet.
I kept my voice level.
“What exactly did my brother tell you?”
Jenna swallowed.
“That the whole executive team knew how his accounts worked.”
“They don’t.”
“He said your father set everything up.”
“What did he set up?”
Her hands tightened around a paper cup.
“Hawthorne.”
I stared at her.
Jenna continued.
“Hawthorne bills Peterson for customer-development services.”
“I know.”
“But they don’t develop customers.”
“What do they do?”
“Nothing.”
Miriam leaned forward.
“What are you saying?”
Jenna looked at me.
“The accounts Derek gets bonuses on aren’t all real.”
My pulse slowed.
“How many?”
“I found seventeen.”
“Fake customers?”
“Shell companies.”
“And Hawthorne?”
She took a breath.
“The same mailing address appears in archived registration records.”
“Whose address?”
Jenna hesitated.
Then said:
“Your parents’ house.”
For one second, all I could see was fire.
Mr. Bamboo collapsing into black ash.
My father standing beside Derek.
May you like
My mother telling Lucas they could simply buy better toys.
And while they were lecturing my six-year-old about strength, millions of dollars from my company had apparently been flowing through an entity connected to their home.
