She opened the door and stepped out barefoot into the gravel.
I followed.
Inside the house, the air was thick with the smell of old leather and dust.
She dropped her shoes by the door like she used to, walked straight to the kitchen, and pulled out two beers from the fridge like it was still her home.
And just like that, I realized something.
She never left.
Emily slid one of the beers across the table toward me, then sat down and started peeling the label off hers like she was bored.
But her eyes were sharp, focused, like a storm sitting just off the coastline waiting for a reason.
She took a sip, then reached down into her overnight bag and pulled out another manila folder, thicker this time, heavier.
She dropped it in front of me.
It hit the table with a dull slap.
“Open it.”
I raised an eyebrow, but did as she said.
Inside were stock certificates, legal agreements, purchase records, everything stamped and signed.
The first one was under the name Silver Ridge Capital.
The rest followed the same name.
“What is this?” I asked.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“That’s my trust. I’ve been buying into Walsh Biomedical Systems since last year.”
I stared at her.
“You bought stock in Evans Family business?”
“No,” she said. “I bought control.”
My mouth went dry.
“How much?”
“42% as of last week.”
I looked back down at the documents.
They were clean, traced through holding companies, some tied to Nevada, some Delaware.
It was the kind of setup people with serious money use when they want to stay invisible.
“That’s how they didn’t see you coming,” I muttered.
She nodded once.
“They assumed I was just some biotech nerd who’d settle into their world and play along. They didn’t realize I already had my own. I used dividend payouts from Neurogene and the inheritance grandma left me. You remember when I asked for help opening that trust account 2 years ago?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s when it started.”
I pushed the papers back slightly and sat back.
“You’ve been sitting on this through the engagement.”
“I wasn’t sitting,” she said. “I was digging.”
She reached in her bag again and pulled out a black leather-bound folder, the kind executives carry into courtrooms.
Inside were spreadsheets, redmarked documents, and internal emails.
She laid them out one by one like puzzle pieces.
“Here’s their inventory discrepancy report. They claimed 20,000 in unit loss last quarter. It’s closer to 70. Here’s the vendor list. Look at this company, ProMed Supply Chain, overcharging Walsh Biomedical by 15%.”
“And guess who owns it? Evans, Uncle?”
“Here’s their FDA compliance report. Falsified. I had it re audited through an independent agency.”
I stared down at the mess.
I may not have gone to college, but I know when something smells bad, and this rire of coverups and greed.
She slid a document toward me.
“They’re not just stupid, they’re reckless, and once this goes public, they’ll be radioactive.”
I shook my head.
“Emily, this is war.”
“Exactly.”
She pulled out three final documents.
These were signed proxy agreements. Two from minority shareholders, one from an independent board director named Linda Barnes.
“They’ve been holding around 15% between them, but they’re tired of the Walsh family treating the company like their personal playground. I’ve been working on this for months. Linda agreed to back me fully if I could reach quorum.”
I squinted.
“So with their support, I can call an emergency executive vote and win it.”
“And what do you need me for?”
That was when she took out one last paper, shorter, simple, a proxy authorization form.
“I’m transferring my vote to you.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“But I’m still a stakeholder, but you’ll hold the voting rights temporarily. Public optics. They can’t say I’m just a pissed-off ex. But if they have to answer to you, they’ll choke on it.”