I stared at the photograph.
Malcolm stood beside Graham Vale’s father.
“What was his name?”
Charles Wexler answered quietly.
“Arthur Vale.”
The name meant nothing to me.
But Graham was still on the phone.
“Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Put Peter on.”
“I think we should discuss—”
“My son. Now.”
Silence.
Then I heard movement.
“Mom?”
Peter sounded angry, but unharmed.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you free to leave?”
“Yes. Graham isn’t holding me here.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“Good. Then leave.”
“Mom—”
“Take whatever documents are on your desk and walk out.”
Graham spoke in the background.
“That would be premature.”
I heard Peter’s chair scrape.
“No,” Peter said. “I think we’re done tonight.”
“Peter?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Go directly to the Ashford Grand.”
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
The call ended.
I turned to Charles.
“Start talking.”
He looked toward the lobby seating area.
“This requires some explanation.”
“You have 20 minutes.”
We sat.
Charles placed the map on the table between us.
A narrow strip had been marked in red.
It ran along the eastern edge of our Easton property, crossed the access road, and continued beneath part of the old convention center.
“In 1987,” Charles said, “you and Malcolm purchased the Easton building from Easton Manufacturing.”
“Yes.”
“The title appeared clean.”
“Appeared?”
“Twenty-eight years later, Malcolm discovered an older easement agreement.”
“What kind of easement?”
“Permanent commercial access.”
I frowned.
Charles pointed to the red strip.
“The original owner granted access across this section in 1958 to a neighboring textile warehouse.”
“That warehouse hasn’t existed in decades.”
“Correct.”
“So why does it matter?”
“Because the easement was never extinguished.”
I stared at him.
“And who owns the rights?”
Charles didn’t answer immediately.
My patience disappeared.
“Charles.”
“Malcolm acquired them.”
I blinked.
“He bought an easement?”
“He bought the company that held it.”
I stared at him.
“What company?”
Charles pulled another document from his briefcase.
“Mercer Storage and Textile Company.”
My heart stopped.
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“That was my father’s name.”
“I know.”
“No. Mercer was my maiden name.”
“I know that too.”
I looked down at the document.
The company had been formed in 1956.
Two names appeared at the bottom.
Samuel Mercer.
Arthur Vale.
My father.
Graham’s grandfather.
I couldn’t speak.
Charles watched me carefully.
“Your father and Arthur Vale were business partners.”
“That’s impossible.”
“My father was a warehouse worker.”
“That is what Malcolm believed you had been told.”
I shook my head.
“My father died when I was 11.”
“Yes.”
“My mother worked 2 jobs because we had nothing.”
“I’m not suggesting your family had money.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“That your father once owned half of a small textile storage company that failed.”
I looked at the faded incorporation document.
Samuel Mercer.
My father’s signature.
I recognized it from the few old birthday cards my mother had kept.
My hands began to shake.
“Why didn’t my mother ever tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
Charles pointed to another page.
“The company failed after a warehouse fire in 1964. Most assets were sold to pay creditors. But one asset remained.”
“The easement.”
“Yes.”
“And my father still owned part of it?”
“Technically, his estate did.”
My throat tightened.
“So after all these years…”
“You inherited half.”
I looked toward the ballroom.
Half.
My father had died leaving us so little that my mother patched my socks.
Yet somewhere in a courthouse filing cabinet, his name had remained attached to a strip of industrial land for more than 60 years.
“What about the other half?”
“Arthur Vale’s interest passed through his family.”
“To Graham?”
“Eventually.”
I suddenly understood.
“That’s why Halcyon needs us.”
Charles nodded.
“The redevelopment requires uninterrupted control of the access corridor.”
“And they don’t have it.”
“They have the Vale interest.”
“But not mine.”
“Correct.”
I looked at Malcolm’s envelope.
“How did Malcolm discover this?”
“In 2015, the city proposed widening the access road. A title review uncovered the old easement.”
“And Malcolm never told me?”
“He intended to.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
Charles looked uncomfortable.
“Because Arthur Vale’s son approached him first.”
“Graham’s father?”
“Yes. Richard Vale.”
I looked at the photograph.
“So that’s Richard?”
Charles nodded.
“They met several times.”
“What did Richard want?”
“Your half of the easement.”
“Why?”
“He had already begun assembling property in the district.”
“Eleven years ago?”
“Yes.”
I felt cold.
This plan was older than Halcyon’s current offer.
“What mistake did Malcolm make?”
Charles sighed.
“He trusted Richard.”
My stomach tightened.
“Malcolm signed a preliminary option agreement.”
I stood.
“What?”
“It wasn’t a sale.”
“You said he protected us.”
“He did. Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
Charles looked directly at me.
“Malcolm discovered that Richard had misrepresented what he intended to do with the property.”
“What did he intend?”
“Close several industrial businesses and redevelop the entire area.”
Exactly what Halcyon was attempting now.
“Malcolm tried to cancel the option.”
“Could he?”
“That became complicated.”
I almost laughed.
Lawyers always used gentle words for dangerous things.
“What does complicated mean?”
“It means Richard argued the option was binding.”
“Was it?”
“Not entirely.”
“What does that mean?”
Charles opened another document.
“The option required 3 signatures.”
“Whose?”
“Malcolm’s.”
He pointed.
“Richard Vale’s.”
Another line.
“And yours.”
The third line was blank.
I stared at it.
“Malcolm never asked me to sign.”
“No.”
“So it never became valid.”
“That is our position.”
“Our position?”
Charles hesitated.
“The Vale family disputes it.”
I sat again.
“Of course they do.”
“After Malcolm died, Richard stopped pursuing it.”
“Why?”
“He was ill. He died the following year.”
“And Graham inherited everything.”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s trying again.”
“Through Halcyon.”
I looked at the acquisition offer.
“He doesn’t need the company.”
“Not necessarily.”
“He needs my signature.”
“Yes.”
Suddenly, every strange detail made sense.
The deadline.
The inflated purchase price.
The urgency.
The secrecy.
Halcyon wasn’t offering $18.7 million because Bellamy Textile was worth that much.
They were paying for control.
“How much is the redevelopment worth?”
Charles remained silent.
“How much?”
“Potentially hundreds of millions.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because Malcolm would have.
Someone had offered us $18.7 million for the key to something worth hundreds of millions.
“That stubborn man,” I whispered.
Charles almost smiled.
“He said you would say something like that.”
I looked at him.
“What else did Malcolm say?”
Charles nodded toward the envelope.
“There’s a letter.”
I had missed it beneath the deed.
I unfolded it.
Ruth,
If Charles is giving you this, then someone has come back for Easton.
I made a mistake by signing anything before talking to you.
I thought I was protecting the company.
I was really trying to solve everything myself.
You always hated when I did that.
I smiled despite myself.
Yes, I had.
The next line blurred.
If I am no longer there to apologize, then let this letter do it badly for me.
A tear landed on the page.
I wiped it away.
Do not sign because you’re afraid of losing what we built.
Do not refuse because you’re afraid of changing it either.
Make the decision that lets you sleep at night.
And Ruth—remember what your mother taught you.
People are often wrong about what something is worth.
Love,
Malcolm.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
For a moment, I wasn’t 73.
I was 63 again, sitting beside Malcolm’s hospital bed while he complained about the terrible coffee.
I could almost hear him.
Then someone sat opposite me.
Celeste.
I hadn’t noticed her approach.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I folded Malcolm’s letter.
“For what?”
She gave a weak smile.
“How much time do you have?”
I said nothing.
Her eyes dropped.
“The dress.”
I stared at her.
“The prom dress,” she continued.
“You remember it?”
“I remember everything about that night.”
My voice came out colder than I intended.
“I suppose you would.”
She flinched.
“Do you know why I did it?”
I almost stood.
“Celeste, if you’re about to tell me you bullied me because you were secretly unhappy—”
“No.”
That stopped me.
She looked directly at me.
“I did it because I liked having power over someone.”
For once, there was no excuse.
No story about a difficult childhood.
No attempt to make herself the victim.
“I knew people laughed when I laughed,” she said. “And I liked it.”
I studied her.
“That may be the first honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I think it is.”
She swallowed.
“I spent years telling myself we were children.”
“We were.”
“But I continued doing it as an adult.”
I thought about the 10th reunion.
The “cute little coin laundry.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
I waited for the satisfaction I had imagined for 55 years.
It didn’t come.
What came instead was exhaustion.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes widened.
“That’s all?”
“What do you want me to do, Celeste?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
I stood.
“You apologized. I heard you. What happens next is something each of us has to live with.”
She nodded.
Then she reached into her purse.
“There’s something else.”
My body tensed.
“What now?”
“My daughter sent me this yesterday.”
She handed me her phone.
It was an email.
From Lauren Vale.
The subject line read:
EASTON FINAL PHASE.
I looked at Celeste.
“You said Lauren could lose her job.”
“She could.”
“And she gave you this?”
“She didn’t mean to.”
“What?”
“She accidentally forwarded me an email chain while asking whether I knew some of the property owners.”
I scrolled.
There were addresses.
Parcel numbers.
Projected acquisition prices.
And a timeline.
PHASE 1 — SECURE CONVENTION CENTER.
COMPLETE.
PHASE 2 — SECURE BELLAMY ACCESS CONTROL.
PENDING.
PHASE 3 — ASHFORD GRAND.
PHASE 4 — TENANT VACANCY AND DEMOLITION.
My stomach turned.
Then I saw another line.
EXPECTED WORKFORCE DISPLACEMENT: 317.
Three hundred seventeen people.
Not just my employees.
Hotel workers.
Restaurant workers.
Maintenance staff.
Drivers.
Housekeepers.
People like my mother.
People working 2 jobs.
People stretching every dollar.
People sewing clothes at kitchen tables because fabric still had value.
I handed the phone to Charles.
“Can we use this?”
He studied it.
“It may help establish their intentions, but intentions alone don’t prevent a lawful purchase.”
“I don’t need to prevent a purchase.”
He looked up.
“I need to prevent them from controlling the access.”
A slow smile appeared on his face.
“Then don’t sell.”
“That only delays them.”
“Possibly.”
I looked again at the map.
The easement.
Half mine.
Half controlled by the Vale family.
“What happens if neither owner can agree?”
“Neither side can unilaterally terminate the easement.”
“So Graham can’t redevelop it without me.”
“Correct.”
“And I can’t control it without him.”
“Correct.”
I tapped the map.
“What if I don’t own my half anymore?”
Charles frowned.
“I’m not following.”
“What if I give it away?”
His expression changed.
“To whom?”
I looked through the ballroom doors.
Servers moved between tables.
Former classmates talked and laughed.
A busboy stacked dishes.
A woman refilled coffee.
People doing jobs Celeste once thought should embarrass me.
Then I knew exactly who should own it.
“Can an easement interest be placed into a trust?”
Charles leaned back.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“That depends on your purpose.”
“One that I can’t simply sell tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed.
“A charitable trust?”
“Maybe.”
“For what purpose?”
I looked at the workers.
“To protect employment on the Easton site.”
Charles stared at me.
“If structured properly, you could make redevelopment extremely difficult unless specific employment conditions were maintained.”
“How quickly?”
“Not tonight.”
My heart sank.
“But,” he added, “you could execute an irrevocable assignment tonight, subject to final trust documentation.”
“Would that stop Halcyon?”
“It would stop them from acquiring your personal interest through the company sale.”
I smiled.
“Prepare it.”
Charles blinked.
“You’re certain?”
“No.”
He looked confused.
“I’m terrified.”
I picked up Malcolm’s letter.
“But Malcolm told me to make the decision that lets me sleep.”
I checked the time.
9:51.
Peter arrived 4 minutes later.
He hurried through the lobby carrying a laptop bag and a stack of folders.
When he saw Charles, he stopped.
“You.”
Charles stood.
“Hello, Peter.”
“You’re the lawyer from Dad’s safe.”
“Yes.”
I looked at my son.
“You knew about him?”
Peter lowered his head.
“I found his card after Dad died.”
“And the records?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought Dad had been involved in something questionable.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“The option agreement. The hidden company records. Meetings with the Vales. I didn’t understand any of it.”
“So you hid it?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
I almost laughed.
Like father, like son.
“Peter.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
I stepped closer.
“Your father’s biggest mistake was deciding he had to protect me from information.”
Peter looked down.
“And you repeated it.”
“I’m sorry.”
I believed him.
But believing an apology doesn’t erase the consequence.
“We’ll discuss that later.”
He nodded.
“What happens now?”
“We don’t sell.”
His eyes widened.
I expected disappointment.
Instead, his shoulders dropped in relief.
“Thank God.”
I stared at him.
“You wanted me to refuse?”
“I wanted it to be your decision.”
“Peter, do you want this company?”
He froze.
I realized I had never asked him so directly.
Not once.
“I want parts of it.”
“What parts?”
“The people. The relationships. Solving problems. Building something.”
“And what don’t you want?”
“To spend another 20 years terrified that one bad quarter will destroy everything you and Dad built.”
There it was.
The truth.
“So we change it.”
“How?”
“We stop treating the company like a monument.”
Peter stared at me.
“It’s a business. Businesses are supposed to change.”
Charles cleared his throat.
“And preferably after we solve tonight’s problem.”
I smiled.
“Right.”
At 10:26, Graham Vale entered the hotel.
This time, I knew exactly who he was.
Forty-two.
Expensive navy suit.
Calm smile.
Lauren stood beside him.
Celeste’s daughter had her mother’s eyes, but none of her confidence that evening.
Graham approached us.
“Mrs. Bellamy.”
“Mr. Vale.”
“I’m glad we can finally meet.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
His smile remained.
“I assume Mr. Wexler explained the easement.”
“He did.”
“Then you understand why our offer is generous.”
“I understand why you’re in a hurry.”
A tiny change appeared in his eyes.
“We have investors waiting.”
“No. You have a redevelopment waiting.”
Lauren looked at Celeste.
Her face went pale.
Graham’s smile vanished.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I held up Celeste’s phone.
“Yes, you are.”
Lauren whispered, “Mom.”
Celeste looked at her daughter.
“I’m sorry.”
Graham turned sharply.
“What did you give her?”
“Nothing,” Lauren said.
“She had an email.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked back at me.
“Mrs. Bellamy, whatever you believe our future plans may be, the offer remains extremely favorable.”
“For you.”
“For everyone.”
“Especially the 317 people listed under ‘workforce displacement’?”
His face hardened.
Peter stared at him.
“Three hundred seventeen?”
Graham ignored him.
“Redevelopment creates different employment.”
“Then put it in writing.”
“What?”
“Guarantee comparable jobs for every displaced employee.”
“That isn’t realistic.”
“Then don’t tell me it’s good for everyone.”
The lobby became silent.
Graham lowered his voice.
“You’re letting emotion interfere with an $18.7 million decision.”
“Of course I am.”
He blinked.
“People are emotional.”
I stepped closer.
“So are you. That’s why you put a midnight deadline on the offer.”
“The deadline is necessary.”
“No. The deadline is pressure.”
He glanced at Charles.
“You’ve advised her poorly.”
Charles smiled.
“I haven’t advised her yet.”
Graham looked back at me.
“Then let me simplify this. If you refuse, Halcyon will pursue every legal avenue available to enforce the 2015 option.”
“Without my signature?”
“Our attorneys believe we have a case.”
“And mine believe you don’t.”
His expression sharpened.
“Litigation could take years.”
“I’m 73. I’ve learned patience.”
“It could cost millions.”
“I spent my first 30 years counting pennies. Threatening me with numbers doesn’t work as well as you think.”
Peter almost smiled.
Graham didn’t.
Then Charles placed a document on the table.
“Mrs. Bellamy, I have a preliminary assignment drafted.”
Graham’s eyes moved to it.
“What assignment?”
I picked up the pen.
“My interest in the easement.”
For the first time that night, Graham Vale looked frightened.
“To whom?”
“A trust.”
His face drained.
“You cannot do that.”
Charles answered.
“She can.”
Graham stepped toward the table.
“If you transfer that interest, you could permanently impair the value of the entire district.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I could permanently impair your ability to clear everyone out of it.”
“You don’t understand the financial consequences.”
“Then explain them.”
He didn’t.
I put the pen to paper.
“Wait.”
The voice came from Lauren.
Everyone turned.
She looked at her husband.
Then at Celeste.
Then at me.
“Before you sign that, there’s something you need to see.”
Graham’s expression changed instantly.
“Lauren.”
She opened her laptop bag.
“Don’t.”
She pulled out a folder.
“Lauren.”
His voice was no longer calm.
She ignored him.
“I’ve worked on the Easton acquisition for 8 months,” she said.
“Eight months?” Peter asked. “We were approached 6 weeks ago.”
Lauren nodded.
“Because Bellamy Textile wasn’t the first plan.”
Graham stepped toward her.
“That material is confidential.”
She backed away.
Celeste moved between them.
It happened so naturally that for a moment, nobody spoke.
The woman who had spent her youth using people as shields was standing in front of her daughter like one.
Lauren handed me the folder.
Inside were appraisal reports.
Emails.
Maps.
And one document stamped CONFIDENTIAL.
I read the heading.
Then looked at Charles.
“What is a municipal compulsory acquisition petition?”
His face changed.
“Where did you get this?”
Lauren answered.
“Halcyon drafted it 5 months ago.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does it do?”
Charles scanned the first page.
“If approved, they could ask the city to acquire certain access rights for a qualifying redevelopment project.”
I looked at Graham.
“So you don’t need my signature after all.”
He said nothing.
Lauren shook her head.
“They do.”
“Why?”
“Because the petition has a problem.”
She flipped to the final page.
“The city requires proof that the project serves a sufficient public benefit.”
I looked at her.
“And?”
“They were going to use Bellamy Textile.”
Peter frowned.
“How?”
Lauren’s eyes filled.
“Graham planned to announce that Bellamy supported the redevelopment.”
My blood went cold.
“He needed your company attached to the proposal,” she continued. “Local employer. Long history. Community credibility.”
I finally understood the $18.7 million.
They weren’t only buying land.
They were buying our name.
“Once you sold,” Lauren said, “Halcyon could publicly claim Bellamy Textile was a partner in the redevelopment.”
“And after approval?”
“They planned to close Easton within 18 months.”
Peter whispered, “Unbelievable.”
I looked at Graham.
“You were going to use my husband’s name to help destroy the company he built.”
Graham finally lost his composure.
“This is business.”
Four words.
That was all.
But something about them reminded me of Celeste saying:
You can afford it.
Different words.
Same belief.
If something benefited them, everyone else was expected to absorb the cost.
I picked up the pen again.
Graham laughed bitterly.
“You think that trust stops us?”
“No.”
I signed the first page.
“I think it makes you work harder.”
Second signature.
“And I’ve spent 47 years working harder.”
Third.
Charles took the document.
“Executed at 10:41 p.m.”
Graham stared at me.
“This isn’t over.”
“I know.”
He turned to Lauren.
“We’re leaving.”
Lauren didn’t move.
“I said we’re leaving.”
“No.”
Graham froze.
Celeste took her daughter’s hand.
Lauren’s voice shook.
“I resigned this afternoon.”
Graham stared at her.
“What?”
“I sent the letter before we came here.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Lauren looked at the documents in my hands.
“Because I finally realized there’s a difference between making money from a deal and pretending the people hurt by it don’t exist.”
Graham walked out alone.
The lobby remained silent long after the doors closed behind him.
Then Peter exhaled.
“Well.”
I looked at him.
“Well what?”
“That was the most interesting reunion you’ve ever attended.”
I laughed.
For the first time all evening, I laughed without thinking about who was watching.
At 11:17, Charles finished reviewing the trust assignment.
At 11:36, Peter contacted our corporate attorney.
At 11:52, Halcyon sent a final email.
Their offer had increased.
$21 million.
Peter showed me the screen.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Twenty-one million dollars.
Enough money to walk away.
Enough to never worry about another contract.
Enough for Peter’s children.
And their children.
I looked at Malcolm’s letter.
Make the decision that lets you sleep at night.
At 11:58, I typed 4 words.
WE DECLINE YOUR OFFER.
I pressed send.
At midnight, nothing dramatic happened.
No thunder.
No applause.
The clock simply changed.
12:00.
And Bellamy Textile was still ours.
I thought the battle was finished.
I was wrong.
Because at 8:13 the next morning, Peter called me.
“Mom, turn on Channel 8.”
I switched on the television.
A reporter stood outside City Hall.
Behind her was an image of the Easton district.
The headline at the bottom of the screen read:
MAJOR REDEVELOPMENT PROPOSAL FILED OVERNIGHT.
My stomach tightened.
The reporter continued.
“Halcyon Hospitality Group has submitted a $240 million redevelopment proposal that could transform the Easton industrial district into hotels, residential towers, retail space, and a new conference complex.”
Then the screen changed.
A map appeared.
Our property sat directly in the center.
Peter was silent on the phone.
The reporter continued.
“The company says the project could create more than 1,000 new jobs. However, existing businesses may face relocation if the city approves the plan.”
I whispered, “They filed anyway.”
“Yes.”
Then the reporter said something that made me stand.
“Halcyon representatives say several local property owners have already agreed to support the proposal.”
A list appeared.
I recognized 4 names.
All Westbrook classmates.
All had attended the reunion.
Celeste had introduced Graham’s people to them months earlier.
Peter said, “Mom?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the fifth name had appeared.
ASHFORD GRAND HOTEL.
I grabbed my phone.
“That’s impossible.”
“What?”
“The hotel rejected Halcyon.”
“Apparently not anymore.”
I called Mr. Deshmukh.
He answered immediately.
“Mrs. Bellamy.”
“Did the Ashford Grand sell?”
“No.”
“Then why is your hotel listed as supporting Halcyon?”
Silence.
“Mr. Deshmukh?”
“We discovered that this morning.”
“And?”
“Our ownership group never authorized it.”
My skin prickled.
“Then Halcyon lied?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I looked at the television.
The reporter was now standing beside Graham Vale.
He smiled into the cameras.
“We’re proud to have strong local support for a project that will revitalize Easton.”
Revitalize.
Such a beautiful word for erasing things.
Then a journalist asked him about Bellamy Textile.
Graham looked directly into the camera.
“We remain confident that all necessary access issues will be resolved.”
I knew that look.
He was speaking to me.
Peter said, “What do we do?”
Before I could answer, someone knocked on my front door.
Three sharp knocks.
I walked toward it.
“Mom?”
“I have someone at the door.”
“Don’t open it until you know who it is.”
I looked through the window.
A woman stood on my porch.
She appeared to be in her late 60s.
White hair.
Long brown coat.
She held an old blue-check piece of fabric.
My heart stopped.
The same pattern as my prom dress.
Not similar.
The same.
“Who is it?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know.”
The woman knocked again.
I opened the door but left the chain attached.
“Yes?”
She looked at me for several seconds.
“Ruth Mercer?”
No one had called me that since the reunion.
“Who are you?”
She lifted the fabric.
“I think this belonged to your mother.”
My fingers went numb.
“Where did you get that?”
“From my father.”
“Who was your father?”
Her answer made every document from the night before suddenly feel incomplete.
“Arthur Vale.”
I stopped breathing.
Graham’s grandfather.
My father’s former business partner.
She reached into her coat and removed a small metal box.
“Before my father died, he told me this belonged to Samuel Mercer’s family.”
My father.
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know everything.”
She looked past me toward the television, where Graham was still speaking at City Hall.
“But I know my nephew has been searching for it for years.”
“Your nephew?”
“Graham.”
She held the box toward me.
Then she said the sentence that changed the entire fight.
“Ruth, the easement isn’t the reason Halcyon wants Easton.”
I stared at her.
“Then what is?”
She looked down at the metal box.
“Your father discovered something beneath that property in 1963.”
My mouth went dry.
“What?”
She met my eyes.
“Something worth far more than $240 million.”
TO BE CONTINUED………………….
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