The article went up at 7:00 Wednesday morning.
Tasha sent it to me before I'd found my glasses.
Sorry. You'd see it anyway.
The headline said a Chattanooga candle company had gone dark on Black Friday.
The second paragraph said why.
A disgruntled former employee held the company hostage, according to investor Royce Halvorsen.
Former employee.
Of a company I'm half of.
The reporter quoted Royce twice and Trevor once.
Under my name was one line.
Varga declined to comment.
That was true.
It looked worse in print.
There was a still from the livestream.
The white monitor, with Trevor pointing at it, mouth open.
They'd cropped Tasha out of it.
By 8:00, Lantern Row's Google listing had forty new reviews.
One star, one star, one star.
Pulled the plug on Black Friday. Classy.
Support small business unless SHE runs it
Most of them had never bought a candle.
A lot of them had my name in them.
At 8:20, a number I didn't know texted me.
hostage-taker. hope ur proud
I blocked it.
Another one came from a different number with the same words.
I blocked that too.
At 8:31, Trevor's wife.
He hasn't come out of the office since he got home.
Whatever you're trying to prove, you proved it.
I put the phone in my bag and drove downtown.
At 10:00, Wendell was already in Vivian's conference room.
He'd driven up from Dalton in a work jacket, carrying a banker's box.
"Every invoice since 2018," he said.
"Printed them myself."
"Ink cost me more than the gas."
The top one was from April 2018.
Bill to: J. Varga
So was the one under it.
So were the next two hundred.
The last one on the stack was the open order.
PO LR-2025-114 · 2,400 amber vessels · $3.40 · $8,160.00 · Bill to: J. Varga
Vivian had the affidavit typed up.
Two pages.
It said who he'd billed, and since when.
It said who had called him to change it.
Wendell read every word with his finger.
"That's right," he said.
"That's what happened."
He signed it in front of the notary from down the hall.
Then he capped the pen and asked if there was coffee.
While he drank it, Vivian laid out the rest on the table.
The registrar receipt.
March 9, 2018 · 10-year registration · $129.90 · Visa ••0592
The ledger, all 300 rows, with the last cell circled.
Unreconciled difference: $0.00
My CPA's binder of nominee returns, five years, tabbed.
Tasha's screenshot, printed on plain copy paper.
Fri 4:31 PM
Schedule A, one page, one line highlighted.
And Exhibit D, with a yellow flag sticking out at page 3.
It looked like a yard sale of my last seven years.
"Here's how Thursday goes," Vivian said.
"Whitley argues."
"I argue."
"You sit there and look reasonable."
"No," I said.
She set her pen down.
"Jo."
"Let me argue it."
"That's what you're paying me for."
"He swore under oath about my name," I said.
"I'll answer under oath."
"Then Whitley gets to cross-examine you."
"Okay."
"He'll ask about the 404."
"Fine."
"He'll ask why you didn't warn the customers."
"I refunded them."
"He'll ask about Trevor's kid."
I didn't answer that one.
Vivian looked at me for a long moment.
Then she wrote WITNESS: PRUITT on her pad and underlined it twice.
"Need me Thursday?" Wendell asked her.
"Only if they fight the affidavit."
"Then I'll be on the road at six."
At 5:00, I was at my stove.
The clock over the burners flipped from 4:59.
Royce's offer had been good until five.
$150,000.
I was stirring a pot of lentil soup.
I kept stirring.
The phone sat face up on the counter.
It didn't ring.
At 5:01, it was just Wednesday.
At 8:00, the email came.
From: Grant Whitley, Whitley Crane PLLC
It was the same firm as the release footer and the complaint.
My client is prepared to pay $400,000 for your membership units and assignment of the Platform Accounts.
This offer expires Thursday, December 4, at 8:00 AM.
That was an hour before the hearing.
I forwarded it to Vivian.
She called inside two minutes.
"That isn't a lowball," she said.
"That's a real number."
"He went from 150 to 400 in three hours," I said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Somebody over there finally read their exhibits."
"Or he's afraid somebody else will."
She let a second go by.
"It's real money, Jo."
"You'd wake up with $423,000."
"It's half of a lie," I said.
"Which half?"
"The half where I sign that it was always theirs."
She didn't argue.
I heard her typing anyway.
"I'll tell him you're declining."
"Don't tell him anything."
"Let it expire."
The typing stopped.
"Then get some sleep," she said.
"And wear something boring."
"Nine a.m. Thursday. Part Two."