“It is not here,” David said, sliding the report back to me. “According to this, the company was registered two years later in Delaware.”
“Adrian must have filed the transition papers himself,” I said.
“If he did, he did it without listing your original share,” David said, leaning closer. “You need to find the blue binder from the safe.”
“Adrian changed the combination last month,” I said.
David took a slow sip of his coffee and looked out the window. “Then you have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” I asked.
“If those original papers are gone, you cannot prove you owned a single share before the merger,” David said.
The garage smelled of damp earth and old motor oil. I carried a flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark as I walked past the stack of winter tires. In the corner, behind the lawnmower, stood the green metal filing cabinet we used when the business was just three vans and a single telephone line.
The bottom drawer was stuck, the metal rusted from the Virginia humidity. I pulled hard, the rollers screeching against the tracks.
