Downstairs in the study, Isabella Moretti sat at Alistair’s massive mahogany desk. The phone was ringing off the hook, but she ignored it, focusing on the laptop screen.
“We control the story,” she told William, who stood by the window looking out at the grounds. “If we tell the truth, the stock tanks and the DOJ reopens the file. If we lie, he dies a hero.”
She typed the final sentence of the press release.
*Alistair Croft, Chairman of Croft Enterprises, passed away peacefully this morning at his estate following a long battle with a degenerative illness. He was surrounded by his loving family.*
“It’s a lie,” William said quietly.
“It’s a shield,” Isabella corrected, hitting send. “He confessed to save us from the scandal. We owe it to him to keep the lid on the coffin.”
The news hit the wires minutes later. The world would remember Alistair Croft as a complicated genius who died too soon. Only the family would know he died paying a debt he created.