Chapter 3 - THE TORN DRAWING
“That’s Claire’s father,” Grant whispered. “But Claire told me her family had never met my dad.”
The heavy silver watch trembled in Grant’s palm. He stared at the faded photograph as if it were a bomb about to detonate in the middle of Bellamy House.
“Are you sure?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Arthur Mercer and Thomas Whitmore,” Grant said, his voice hollow. “Looking like best friends. Claire swore on our relationship that she didn't know his name when I first told her about him.”
I looked toward the private lounge. Claire was in there, pouring champagne, spinning a narrative, holding the purse strings to Grant’s future.
“Why would she lie about that?” I asked.
Grant closed the watch with a sharp snap.
“I don’t know,” he said, standing up. The defeat in his posture was gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying focus. “But I’m going to find out. And I need to find my father.”
He looked down at me. Really looked at me this time.
“You stood up for him,” Grant said. “You lost your job because you wouldn't kick him out.”
“I’ve had worse nights,” I lied. My chest was tight with panic over my rent, but I wasn't going to show it to a billionaire.
“What’s your name?”
“Megan.”
“Megan, how did he leave? Did you see which way he went?”
“He went out the front, toward the avenue. He didn't have an umbrella. He couldn't have gone far.”
Grant reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick money clip, and peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills. He held them out to me.
“I need you to help me find him.”
I stared at the money. It was more than enough to fix my car. But I pushed his hand away.
“I don't want your money, Mr. Mercer. I liked your dad. I’ll help you look.”
Grant looked surprised, but he pocketed the cash and nodded. We rushed out the front doors of the hotel into the freezing, driving rain. The wind whipped through my thin blouse—I had left my coat in the employee locker room, but there was no time to get it.
We ran down the block, scanning the glowing bus stops and the shadows of the alleyways. The streets were slick and empty. Arthur was gone.
After twenty minutes of searching, we stood shivering under the awning of a closed bakery. Grant leaned against the brick wall, wiping rain from his face.
“He’s gone,” Grant said. “He always does this. He disappears when things get hard.”
“You said you hadn't spoken to him in three years,” I said gently, hugging my arms to stay warm. “What happened?”
Grant looked out at the rain. “My first wife, Sarah, died. It was sudden. Aneurysm. We had a three-year-old son, Leo. When Sarah passed, I fell apart. I drowned myself in work to cope. My dad… he tried to step in. He wanted to take Leo for a while, to let me grieve. But I was so angry. I accused him of trying to take my son away. I said terrible things.”
His voice cracked.
“I packed up Leo and moved across the country. I built my company. I met Claire. And I left my father behind. I’ve been trying to fix it for a year, but my letters kept coming back. And now… Claire told him I didn't want him.”
“You have to ask her about the photograph,” I said.
“No,” Grant said sharply. “If I ask her, she’ll spin a lie. I need proof of what her family did to mine. And I need someone I can trust to help me.”
He turned to me.
“You need a job, Megan. I need someone who won't lie to me to take care of Leo while I figure this out. Claire’s nanny quit last week. Be my nanny. Just until I sort out this mess.”
I stared at him. “A nanny? I’m a waitress.”
“You have integrity,” Grant said. “That’s what Leo needs right now. I’ll double whatever Richard was paying you. Please.”
I thought about my empty bank account. And I thought about the old man in the brown coat.
“Okay,” I said.
Grant drove me to his sprawling townhouse in the city's richest neighborhood. It was silent, vast, and completely devoid of warmth.
He led me up to a dimly lit bedroom. On the bed, a little boy was fast asleep, clutching a stuffed bear. This was Leo. He was six, with a mop of dark hair and his father’s jawline.
“He’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“He’s my whole world,” Grant said. “Claire is… she’s trying with him. But Leo is withdrawn. He misses Sarah. He misses my dad.”
As Grant adjusted the blanket, a piece of paper fluttered off the bed and landed at my feet.
I picked it up.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper. It showed a tall man, a little boy, and an old man with a brown coat standing next to a house with a red door.
But what caught my eye was the back of the paper.
There was writing on it. It wasn't crayon. It was neat, elegant cursive in blue ink.
“My brave Leo. Grandpa is always at the red cabin if you need me. Look in the coat.”
I gasped. “Grant.”
I handed him the paper. He read the back, his eyes widening.
“This is my dad’s handwriting,” Grant whispered. “When did Leo get this?”
Before Grant could say another word, the front door downstairs slammed open. Heels clicked fiercely against the hardwood floor.
“Grant?!” Claire’s voice echoed up the stairs, shrill and furious.
Grant looked panicked. He shoved the drawing into my hands. “Hide it.”
I quickly folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket just as Claire appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. She was drenched, her gold dress ruined, her eyes wild.
“You walked out on my father,” she hissed at Grant. “You humiliated me.”
Then her eyes landed on me.
She froze. The fury on her face morphed into something much darker.
“What is the waitress doing in my house?” Claire demanded.
“She’s Leo’s new nanny,” Grant said calmly.
Claire let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Over my dead body.”
She marched into the room, grabbed her designer handbag off a nearby chair, and yanked it open to get her phone.
As she pulled her phone out, something fell from her bag and hit the floor with a metallic clink.
I looked down.
It was a bundle of heavy envelopes, tied together with twine.
May you like
And on the top envelope, stamped in red ink, were the words: RETURN TO SENDER.
It was Grant’s letters.
