Chapter 4 - THE RED DOOR
It was Grant’s letters.
The silence in the bedroom grew so thick I could hear the rain lashing against the glass.
Grant stepped forward. He didn't yell. He didn't scream. The absolute quiet of his movements was far more terrifying. He reached down and picked up the bundle of envelopes from the Persian rug.
He flipped through them. One. Five. A dozen. All addressed to Arthur Mercer. All marked RETURN TO SENDER.
Grant looked up. His eyes were dead.
“You said he moved, Claire,” Grant said. “You said he didn't leave a forwarding address. You told me you personally went to the post office to check.”
Claire’s throat swallowed hard. For the first time, the polished socialite looked backed into a corner.
“I… I did,” she stammered, taking a half-step back. “They must have been mailed back here. The housekeeper probably put them in my bag by mistake—”
“The postmarks are from six months ago, Claire.” Grant’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’ve been carrying these for half a year? Intercepting my mail?”
“I was protecting you!” Claire cried, her voice rising to that familiar shrill pitch. “Every time you wrote to him, you got depressed! You ignored your business! You ignored me! He’s toxic, Grant. He brings you down!”
“So you lied to me.”
“I manage the unpleasant things so you can focus on building our empire!” Claire pointed a shaking finger at me. “And now you bring this… this nobody into our home? She’s a waitress! She knows nothing about raising a child!”
At the sound of the shouting, the lump under the blankets stirred.
Leo sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked at Claire, shrinking back slightly against his headboard, then looked at me.
“Daddy?” Leo’s small voice broke the tension. “Why is she yelling?”
Grant immediately dropped the letters and moved to the bed, pulling Leo into a hug. “It’s okay, buddy. We were just having a disagreement.”
Claire crossed her arms. “Get her out of my house, Grant. Or I am calling my father right now and pulling the hotel deal.”
Grant stood up, holding Leo against his chest.
“It’s not your house, Claire,” Grant said softly. “It’s mine. And the wedding is off.”
Claire stopped breathing. The blood drained from her face. “You don’t mean that.”
“Leave the key on the counter. We’ll untangle the hotel deal on Monday.”
Claire stared at him, realizing he was completely serious. Her eyes darted to me, burning with a hatred so pure it made my skin prickle.
“You’re going to lose everything, Grant,” she whispered. “My father will destroy you.”
She turned on her heel and marched out. We listened to the heavy front door slam shut.
Grant let out a long, shuddering breath. He sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in Leo’s shoulder.
I stood awkwardly in the corner. “I should go.”
“No,” Grant said, looking up. “Please. Don't go.”
He looked at the pocket in my pants where I had hidden the drawing.
“You still have it?” he asked.
I pulled out the folded paper. Grandpa is always at the red cabin if you need me. Look in the coat.
“Does he mean his brown coat?” I asked. “He was wearing it tonight.”
Grant shook his head. “No. When I was a kid, my dad had an old hunting coat he kept at our summer cabin in Vermont. It had a red door. We haven't been there in twenty years. But… it’s a three-hour drive.”
He looked at his watch. It was midnight.
“I’m going,” Grant said. “I have to know the truth. About Claire’s father, about the letters, about everything.”
“I’ll stay here with Leo,” I offered.
Grant looked at his son, then at the massive, empty house. “No. I don't trust Claire not to come back with her father. We’re all going.”
Thirty minutes later, the three of us were in Grant’s SUV, driving north into the storm. Leo was asleep in the backseat, wrapped in a blanket. I sat in the passenger seat, nursing a thermos of coffee, watching the city lights give way to dark, winding country roads.
“Why did you help him?” Grant asked quietly, keeping his eyes on the road. “At the restaurant. You didn't know him.”
“He reminded me of my grandfather,” I said softly. “He worked in a factory for forty years. When he got old, people started looking right through him. Like he was invisible. I hate it when people do that.”
Grant’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I made my father invisible. I let Claire do it.”
We drove in silence until we reached a desolate, wooded dirt road in Vermont. The rain had turned to a light drizzle. Through the trees, the headlights illuminated a small, weathered wooden cabin.
The door was painted a peeling, faded red.
Smoke was rising from the chimney.
Grant parked the car. He looked terrified. “He’s here.”
We left Leo sleeping in the locked, warm car and walked up to the porch. Grant raised his fist and knocked.
A moment later, the door creaked open.
Arthur stood there, wearing a heavy flannel shirt. He looked older than he had at the restaurant, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion.
When he saw Grant, he froze.
“Grant,” Arthur breathed.
“Dad.” Grant’s voice broke. “Claire hid my letters. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Arthur’s eyes filled with tears. He reached out, and for the first time in three years, father and son embraced. I looked away, wiping a tear from my own cheek.
After a minute, Arthur pulled back and looked at me. He gave a gentle smile. “Megan Brooks. The waitress with a spine.”
“Hi, Mr. Mercer,” I smiled back.
“Come in,” Arthur said, ushering us into the warm cabin.
The inside was dusty but neat. Hanging on a hook by the fireplace was a heavy, moth-eaten green canvas coat.
Grant saw it immediately. He pulled Leo’s drawing from his pocket. “Dad. You sent this to Leo. You told him to look in the coat. Why?”
Arthur’s face darkened. He walked over to the green coat, reached into a deep inside pocket, and pulled out a small, heavy brass key. It looked like it belonged to an old safe.
He held it out to Grant.
“Because, Son,” Arthur said heavily. “I didn't abandon you after Sarah died. I was forced to leave. To protect you.”
Grant frowned. “Protect me from what?”
“From Claire’s father,” Arthur said. “Twenty years ago, Thomas Whitmore and I were partners. We owned the land Bellamy House is built on. But Thomas got greedy. He committed fraud, stole millions from investors, and framed me for it.”
My jaw dropped.
“I was going to go to the police,” Arthur continued. “But Thomas threatened to ruin you. You had just started your company. He said he would plant evidence in your accounts, destroy your career before it started. So… I signed the land over to him, took the blame, and disappeared. It was the only way to keep you safe.”
Grant looked sick. “That’s why Claire pretended not to know you. She knew her family stole our legacy.”
“But it gets worse,” Arthur said, pressing the brass key into Grant’s hand. “Claire isn't marrying you because she loves you, Grant. She’s marrying you because the Whitmore empire is completely bankrupt. And they are using your company to cover it up.”
Before Grant could process this, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was an unknown number. I answered it.
“Hello?”
“Megan,” a chilling, familiar voice purred on the other end. It was Claire.
“Where are you?” I demanded.
“Oh, I’m back at the house,” Claire said cheerfully. “But you shouldn't have left the car unlocked, darling.”
My blood ran cold.
May you like
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
“I mean,” Claire said, “Leo and I are going for a little drive. If Grant wants his son back, he’s going to sign the merger papers on Monday.”
