Agnes’s words, “He won’t break you,” echoed in my mind. They spurred me to action, not towards a grand plan, but towards something tangible. My father’s old study, untouched since his death, suddenly held new meaning.
I spent the next few days sifting through his papers, a dusty labyrinth of old invoices, forgotten correspondence, and faded blueprints. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, only that there might be something, anything, to connect Croft’s past to his present.
Hidden within a stack of blueprints for an engine design from the late 1930s, I found a thin, unmarked envelope. Inside was a single, typed letter, unsigned, addressed to my father.
The words blurred at first, but then a phrase leaped out at me: “Croft’s brute force methods… acquisition of engine design secrets… Johnson Engineering.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Johnson Engineering was a rival company, known for their innovative engine designs before the war. The letter detailed how Croft had allegedly used his wartime influence and connections to strong-arm a key engineer into revealing proprietary secrets, effectively crippling Johnson. The writer implied a major lawsuit had been quietly settled, buried under wartime priorities.
It was a glimpse into Croft’s modus operandi, not just with my father, but with others. He didn’t just compete; he devoured. He didn’t just win; he destroyed. This wasn’t just about my son; it was a pattern of ruthless, unethical, and potentially illegal actions, veiled under the guise of patriotic industrialism.
The letter was old, vague, and probably inadmissible in court, but it confirmed what I already suspected: Elias Croft was a predator, always had been.
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