My father’s numbers at Intrepid started slipping the second year after the lottery. I knew before he did. That is one of the things about being invisible in a building full of executives: people talk in front of the janitor like the mop itself signed a non-disclosure agreement. I heard regional leadership mention Malcolm’s pipeline problems twice. I saw the names on the whiteboard after a late sales strategy meeting. I learned, by cleaning the glass walls of conference room fourteen, that the biggest client in his territory was days from walking because no one had addressed their service complaints.
Through my trust, I acquired a minority stake in one of that client’s subsidiary vendors and quietly repaired the issue from the side, then directed a consulting group I owned to recommend expanding the contract—through Malcolm’s division. His numbers recovered. He came home that month swelling with self-congratulation, told my mother he had a gift for closing under pressure, and spent two hundred dollars they didn’t have on celebratory steaks.
Jace was the worst.