They found them in the library.
Alistair was sitting in a wheelchair facing the door, a tartan blanket draped over his legs. His face was slack, his mouth slightly open, but his eyes were wide and frantic, darting between his sons.
Beatrice stood behind him, her hand resting protectively–or possessively–on his shoulder.
“What happened?” William asked, stepping forward.
“A tragedy,” Beatrice said, her voice smooth as silk. “Your father suffered a massive stroke this evening. It was quite sudden. The doctors say he has ‘Locked-In Syndrome.’ He can hear us, he can understand us… but he cannot speak or move.”
Malcolm walked up to the chair. He looked into his father’s eyes. He saw the rage burning there, the desperate plea for help. He realized instantly that this was no natural stroke. He looked at Beatrice, and a chill went down his spine.
“He cannot run the company in this state,” Beatrice continued, patting Alistair’s paralyzed hand. “However, before he lost his speech, he communicated his final wishes to me. He wants the family reunited. He wants the assets unfrozen. He wants you, William, reinstated as CEO.”
She leaned down to Alistair’s ear. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
Alistair stared straight ahead, a scream trapped in his throat.