Chapter 5 - THE BRASS KEY
The phone slipped from my hand and clattered onto the wooden floorboards.
“Megan? What is it?” Grant grabbed my shoulder, seeing the sheer panic on my face.
“It’s Claire,” I choked out, barely able to breathe. “She followed us. She has Leo.”
Grant didn’t ask questions. He didn’t hesitate. He bolted for the cabin door, throwing it open so hard the wood splintered against the wall. Arthur and I were right behind him.
We spilled out onto the muddy driveway.
Grant’s SUV was still parked where we left it, the engine running to keep the heater on. But the back door was wide open, swaying in the wind.
Leo was gone.
Down the dark dirt road, a pair of red taillights was already disappearing around the bend.
“No, no, no!” Grant roared, sprinting down the driveway toward the taillights, slipping in the mud.
Arthur grabbed him by the back of his jacket, hauling him upright. “Grant! Stop! You can’t catch a car on foot. Think!”
Grant was hyperventilating, his eyes wild. “She took him, Dad. She took my boy.”
“She won't hurt him,” I said, trying to keep my own voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “She’s using him as leverage. She told me on the phone—if you want Leo back, you have to sign the merger papers on Monday.”
Grant leaned against the SUV, gripping his hair. “She’s completely lost her mind. I’ll call the police. I’ll have her arrested for kidnapping.”
“You can’t,” Arthur said sharply.
Grant spun around. “The hell I can’t! She stole my son!”
“Grant, listen to me!” Arthur stepped in front of his son, his voice dropping to a gravelly, urgent tone. “Thomas Whitmore owns the chief of police in the city. He owns two judges. If you call the cops, Claire will say Leo got scared and ran to her for comfort because his unstable father dragged him to a shack in the woods in the middle of the night with a waitress he just met.”
My stomach churned. Arthur was right. To the outside world, Claire was the devoted fiancée. We looked like the erratic ones.
“She will twist it,” Arthur continued. “She’ll file an emergency injunction for temporary custody, claiming you’re unfit. And with her father’s judges, she’ll win. She’ll hold Leo hostage legally until you sign your company away.”
Grant looked like he was going to be sick. He looked down at his hand, still clutching the heavy brass key his father had given him.
“Then what do we do?” Grant asked, his voice breaking.
Arthur pointed to the key. “We destroy her before Monday. That key opens a safety deposit box at the First National Bank downtown. Inside is the original ledger from twenty years ago. The one Thomas Whitmore thought he burned. It proves his fraud. It proves he extorted the Bellamy House land from me.”
“If we have that,” Grant realized, his eyes narrowing, “we can prove the Whitmores are bankrupt. We can prove they built their empire on a crime.”
“We trade the ledger for Leo,” Arthur said firmly. “But the bank doesn't open until 9:00 a.m. on Monday. We have forty-eight hours.”
“I’m not waiting forty-eight hours without my son,” Grant said dangerously.
“You have to,” Arthur said. “Play her game. Make her think she’s won. Where is the engagement gala tomorrow night?”
“At Bellamy House,” I spoke up. Both men looked at me. “The entire board will be there. Investors. The press. It’s a massive PR event for the merger.”
A cold, calculated look washed over Grant’s face. It was the face of a CEO who built a billion-dollar company from nothing.
“Okay,” Grant said softly. “We play her game. We go back to the city. I’ll act like a broken man. I’ll tell her I’ll sign whatever she wants if she brings Leo to the gala.”
He looked at me. “Megan, you used to work there. Can you get us into the hotel’s private offices unseen during the gala?”
“Richard took my employee card,” I said. Then I remembered something. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, silver master key. “But I forgot to turn in my pantry key. It accesses the service elevators. I can get us anywhere.”
Arthur smiled tightly. “Good girl.”
We drove back to the city in grim silence. Grant dropped me off at my cramped apartment. He insisted on giving me a burner phone he kept in his glove compartment. “Keep this on you. Claire doesn't know this number. Rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I went up to my apartment, locked the door, and collapsed on my faded sofa. I was exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come. I kept seeing Leo’s frightened face. I barely knew Grant, but the thought of Claire using that sweet little boy to steal a company made my blood boil.
The next day dragged. At 5:00 p.m., the burner phone buzzed.
“I’m outside,” Grant’s voice said.
I went downstairs. Grant was waiting in a black sedan, wearing a sharp tuxedo. But his eyes were bloodshot.
I climbed in. “Did you speak to her?”
“She brought Leo back to her father’s estate,” Grant said, his jaw tight. “She let me FaceTime him for two minutes. He was crying. He asked when I was coming to get him. It took everything in me not to drive a truck through the Whitmore gates.”
“We’ll get him back tonight,” I promised.
I was wearing my best black dress, which wasn't saying much, but I looked presentable enough to blend into the shadows of a gala.
We pulled up to the alley behind Bellamy House. The front of the hotel was swarming with paparazzi, snapping photos of wealthy guests arriving in gowns and tuxes.
I used my pantry key, and we slipped through the loading dock, past the humming kitchen, and into the service elevator.
“The manager’s office is on the third floor,” I whispered as we rode up. “If Richard kept your letters, there might be other things Claire asked him to hide. Documents. Blackmail.”
The elevator pinged. We stepped into the carpeted hallway. It was completely empty; all the staff were downstairs managing the gala.
We found Richard’s office. It was locked.
Grant didn't hesitate. He took a step back and kicked the door right next to the handle. The wood splintered, and the door swung open.
We rushed inside and began tearing through the filing cabinets.
“Look for anything with the Whitmore name,” Grant ordered, rummaging through the desk drawers.
I opened a bottom drawer and found a red folder. I pulled it out.
“Grant,” I said. “Look at this.”
He came over. Inside the folder was a bank statement for the Whitmore Corporation. The balances were entirely in the red. Millions of dollars in debt. But stapled to the back was a private medical document with Claire’s name on it.
I frowned, reading it. “It’s from a fertility clinic. Dated last month.”
Grant stared at it. “Claire told me she was pregnant three weeks ago. It’s the reason she pushed for the wedding to happen so fast.”
“Grant,” I pointed to the diagnosis on the paper. “This says the IVF transfer failed. She’s not pregnant.”
Before Grant could process the depth of this new lie, the office door clicked shut behind us.
We spun around.
Claire stood there, wearing her flawless gold dress, a glass of champagne in her hand. But her smile was completely gone.
She wasn't alone. Standing beside her was Thomas Whitmore, and in his arms, looking terrified, was little Leo.
“You just couldn't wait until Monday, could you, Grant?” Claire sighed, taking a sip of her champagne.
She reached into her clutch and pulled out something that made my heart stop.
It was a silver charm bracelet.
My silver charm bracelet. The one my sister had given me before she died.
“How did you get that?” I gasped, reaching for my wrist. It was gone. I must have dropped it in the struggle at the cabin.
Claire smiled, dangling the bracelet from her fingers.
“I did some digging on your new waitress friend today, Grant,” Claire said. “It turns out Megan here has a little nephew in foster care. A nephew she’s been trying very hard to win custody of.”
May you like
Claire’s eyes locked onto mine, dead and shark-like.
“My father plays golf with the head of Family Services, Megan. If you don't walk out that door right now and never speak to Grant again, I will make sure you never see your nephew as long as you live.”
