Chapter 7 - THE ASHES
The black leather ledger hit the flames of the patio heater.
Even from the street, over the noise of the paparazzi and the idling cars, I could see the sudden flare of orange as the dry, twenty-year-old paper caught fire.
“No!” Grant yelled.
He handed Leo to me and sprinted up the red-carpeted steps, shoving past a photographer. But he was too late. By the time Grant reached the top of the stairs, Claire was stepping back, her face illuminated by the fire. The ledger was nothing but a curled, blackened husk, crumbling into ash.
Claire looked at Grant, her chest heaving, a twisted smile playing on her lips.
“Oops,” she said softly.
Grant stared at the ashes, completely paralyzed. The only piece of leverage he had—the only proof of Arthur’s innocence and Thomas’s crimes—was gone.
I stood by the car, holding Leo tight against my hip. The burner phone was still pressed to my ear.
“Arthur,” I whispered into the phone. “She burned it.”
A heavy, defeated silence met me on the other end. “Then it’s over,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Thomas will bury Grant. He’ll take everything.”
I hung up the phone. My mind was racing. Claire hadn't just destroyed the evidence against her father; she had destroyed the only thing keeping Thomas in check. Now, Thomas had no reason not to crush Grant’s company and take custody of Leo anyway.
Grant walked slowly back down the stairs, looking like a dead man walking.
He reached the car and took Leo from my arms, holding him so tight the little boy whimpered.
“Get in,” Grant said, his voice eerily calm.
We got into the SUV and drove away from the flashing lights of Bellamy House. The silence in the car was suffocating. Grant didn't drive toward his townhouse. He drove toward the waterfront, eventually parking overlooking the dark, churning harbor.
“I lost,” Grant whispered, staring out at the black water. “Without that ledger, Thomas will sue for breach of contract on the merger. He’ll freeze my assets. And with his judges… he’ll argue I’m financially unstable and take Leo.”
“We’ll fight them,” I said fiercely, though I had no idea how. “You have money. You can hire better lawyers.”
“It’s not about lawyers, Megan. It’s about power in this city. And Thomas Whitmore owns the board.”
Leo, sensing his father’s despair, reached into his little pocket.
“Daddy?” Leo said softly.
Grant turned, forcing a gentle smile for his son. “Yeah, buddy?”
“I found this in the bad lady’s car,” Leo said.
He held out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
Grant took it gently. He smoothed it out on the center console. I leaned over to look.
It wasn't a ledger. It wasn't a bank statement.
It was a photograph.
But not a photograph of a person. It was a picture of a safety deposit box key. The key had a serial number stamped on it: #804.
“What is this?” I asked.
Grant frowned, staring at the number. “When we were in Richard’s office, Claire dropped her purse. This must have fallen out when she grabbed my letters.”
“But Arthur gave you the brass key,” I said, pointing to Grant’s pocket. “If the ledger was in Arthur’s box, why does Claire have a photo of a different bank key?”
Grant’s eyes widened. He pulled the brass key Arthur had given him out of his pocket and placed it next to the photograph.
The shapes were completely different.
“Megan,” Grant said, his heart rate visibly picking up. “My dad told us the ledger was in his box. But when he went to check it today, it was empty.”
“Right. Because Claire stole it.”
“How?” Grant asked, his voice rising with revelation. “How does a twenty-something socialite break into a secure federal bank box without the owner’s signature?”
I stared at him. The realization hit me like a freight train.
“She didn't,” I breathed.
“Exactly,” Grant said, his eyes practically glowing in the dark car. “Claire didn't steal the ledger from the bank. She stole it from Thomas. Thomas kept the ledger. He didn't burn it twenty years ago like he told my dad. He kept it in his own box. Box #804.”
“Then what did she just burn on the patio?”
Grant let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “A prop. A fake. A random book she grabbed to make us think she destroyed the evidence. She wanted us to give up. Because she still has the real ledger.”
“Why would she keep it?” I asked. “Why not just destroy it?”
“Because it’s her leverage over her father,” Grant realized. “Thomas forced her to marry me to save his bankrupt company. Claire hates him for it. She kept the ledger so she could control him. If he pushes her too far, she can send him to prison.”
The pieces clicked together perfectly. Claire wasn't a mastermind; she was a desperate daughter playing a dangerous game against an abusive father, and she was using Grant and Leo as pawns.
“So the real ledger is still in Box #804,” I said. “But we don't have the key.”
“No,” Grant said, starting the car. The defeat was gone, replaced by a ruthless, burning determination. “But I know who does. And I know where he keeps it.”
Grant whipped the SUV around and sped back toward the city.
“Where are we going?” I asked, holding onto the door handle.
“Thomas Whitmore’s estate,” Grant said. “He always wears a chain around his neck. He told me once it was the key to his legacy. I thought he meant his will. But it’s the bank key.”
“Grant, we can’t break into his house,” I warned. “He has security. Dogs.”
“We’re not breaking in,” Grant said. “The gala is still happening at Bellamy House. The estate will be empty except for the staff. And I’m still technically his future son-in-law. I have the gate code.”
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the massive iron gates of the Whitmore estate. Grant punched in the code. The gates swung open.
We drove up the long, sweeping driveway and parked near the side entrance.
“Stay here with Leo,” Grant ordered. “Keep the doors locked.”
“Be careful,” I said.
Grant slipped out into the shadows. I locked the doors and climbed into the backseat, wrapping my arms around Leo.
“Is Daddy playing a game?” Leo whispered.
“A very important one, sweetie,” I said, kissing his forehead.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The suspense was agonizing. I kept checking my watch.
Suddenly, a heavy THUMP hit the hood of the SUV.
I screamed, pulling Leo down to the floorboards.
I peeked over the dashboard.
It wasn't Grant.
It was Richard. My old manager from Bellamy House. He was standing in front of the car, breathing heavily, holding a heavy metal flashlight.
He walked around to the driver’s side and slammed the flashlight against the window. The glass cracked, but didn't shatter.
“Open the door, Megan!” Richard yelled. “Claire sent me! She figured out you’d come here! Open the door!”
I scrambled into the driver’s seat. I reached for the ignition, praying Grant had left the keys.
He hadn't.
May you like
Richard raised the flashlight again. “I’m not losing my job over you twice!”
He swung the heavy metal directly at the cracked glass.
