Page 12 of Oleander

Night had swallowed the horizon, leaving the sea and sky joined in a single black expanse broken only by the distant glare of steel.

His mega-yacht rose and settled beneath him with the slow breath of the water, each gentle lift passing through the desk, the chair, and the old bones of his spine.

To the southeast, a grouping of oil rigs blazed against the darkness, their white work lights and red warning beacons reflected in trembling ribbons across the water.

From this distance they looked clean and permanent, like iron cities that had risen from the deep because he had ordered them to.

He knew better.

The rigs were rust, debt, and twenty-four-hour prayers disguised as engineering. They survived only while money flowed faster than crude, and lately the money had begun to slow.

On the desk before him lay a folder the color of dried blood, secured by a black elastic cord. He had opened it three times and hated its contents more with every reading.

The old bitch was dead.

The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it had followed him from the funeral like a shadow and settled into the yacht before he arrived.

He needed her money, but the money was only the surface of it. What mattered were her shares in Burton Drilling, enough to tip the balance and return control to the hands that had built the company.

His hands.

She had promised them to him years ago, across a white tablecloth spotted with candle wax, speaking as if blood counted for more than signatures.

He could still hear her voice, soft with wine and false affection, telling him the shares would come home when the time was right.

He had believed her because believing her had been convenient.

Now the folder said she had left every share to three separate charities, and trustees who knew nothing about keeping a drilling company alive.

He was not surprised. She had lied about a great many things, including why she left him, what she knew about their father’s accounts, and whom she blamed for the fire on Platform Nine.

Some lies had been cruel. Others had been useful. This one was intolerable.

A low vibration traveled through the yacht as the stabilizers corrected for a heavier swell. In the glass, Hollis saw his reflection slide over the distant rigs.

At eighty-six, his face had sharpened rather than softened. The skin hung loose beneath his eyes, but the eyes themselves remained pale, steady, and without apology.

He lifted one hand and pressed two fingers against the folder, as though feeling for a pulse beneath the cover.

Burton Drilling was already bleeding. Creditors were circling, the board was frightened, and two directors had begun whispering about selling the Gulf assets before winter.

If the charity voted with them, the company would be broken apart by men who measured history in quarters and loyalty in basis points.

If Hollis held the majority, none of them could touch it.

It would all be his again—the rigs, the leases, the debt, the name painted in blue along the hulls of the supply boats.

Outside, a flare ignited on the farthest platform, a brief orange wound in the night.

Hollis watched until the flame steadied, then reached for the encrypted phone beside the folder.

There were respectable ways to challenge a will. There were quiet ways to persuade trustees. And there were older ways, the kind that left no minutes and required no vote.

He had learned long ago that every institution, however noble its name, was built from people, and every person had a seam that could be split.

The charities had trustees. By morning, he would know which one was in debt, which one was lonely, and which one still believed secrets could stay buried.

His thumb hovered over a name on the screen while the yacht dipped into the dark trough between swells.