Chapter 3 - THE SECOND PHONE
The emergency room smelled like antiseptic, wet fabric, and fear.
A nurse cut my blouse open because lifting my arms hurt too much.
The bruises were already darkening.
When Dr. Amelia Shaw entered the examination room, she didn't greet my father first.
She came directly to me.
"Claire."
She had known me since I was twelve.
She had once stitched my chin after I fell off a horse.
She had treated me for pneumonia in college.
Tonight, she looked at my injuries and stopped being a family friend.
She became a doctor.
"Tell me everything."
So I did.
Not just what happened tonight.
Everything.
The pushing.
The grabbing.
The first slap eight months earlier that Grant apologized for until he cried.
The second incident three months later.
The time he punched a hole through our bedroom door because I locked it.
The way he always convinced me afterward that stress had made him lose control.
The way I started measuring my words.
The way I stopped calling friends.
The way I had hidden bruises with makeup.
My father sat in the corner.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't move.
That was worse.
I'd spent years hiding Grant's behavior from Dad because I knew exactly what people believed Arthur Vance did to men who hurt his family.
Maybe those stories were exaggerated.
Maybe some weren't.
I didn't want to find out.
So I lied.
Every Thanksgiving.
Every birthday.
Every phone call.
How's Grant?
Wonderful.
How's married life?
Perfect.
Are you happy?
Yes.
Dr. Shaw examined my ribs.
I nearly screamed.
"At least two fractures," she said. "Possibly three."
My father stood.
"Dad."
He stopped.
"Sit down."
His nostrils flared.
But he sat.
Then came the question I had been dreading.
"My baby?"
Dr. Shaw's expression softened.
"We're going to check."
The ultrasound machine rolled beside the bed.
I stared at the ceiling.
My entire body shook.
Grant's fist against my cheek had hurt.
The marble floor had hurt.
But nothing compared to the fear in those seconds.
Dr. Shaw moved the wand carefully.
I couldn't read her face.
"Amelia?"
She turned the monitor slightly.
"There."
A tiny shape.
Almost nothing.
Everything.
My breath collapsed into a sob.
"Is the baby..."
"The pregnancy is still where we expect it to be."
"Heartbeat?"
"At six weeks, sometimes we see cardiac activity, sometimes it's too early."
She adjusted the image.
Then smiled.
"There."
I couldn't hear anything.
But I could see it.
A tiny flicker.
My baby.
Alive.
Dad stood beside me.
He stared at the screen.
Arthur Vance—the man newspapers described as ruthless, the man who had negotiated billion-dollar acquisitions without blinking—placed one trembling hand against the bedrail.
"That's my grandchild?"
I started crying harder.
"Yes."
Dad bent down and kissed my forehead.
For a few seconds, none of the rest existed.
Then someone knocked.
One of my father's security men entered.
"Mr. Vance."
Dad straightened.
"What?"
"The police detained Grant."
My chest tightened.
"For assault?"
"Initially."
"Initially?" I asked.
The guard looked at Dad before answering me.
"They found something else."
My father stepped into the hallway.
I called after him.
"Don't shut me out."
He stopped.
"I'm not protecting you by keeping you ignorant anymore," I said. "Whatever this is, I need to know."
Dad looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
The security man continued.
"The second phone was unlocked when the officer picked it up. They saw several messages concerning deletion of security footage. They preserved the device."
"Okay," I said.
"Then Grant tried to take it from the officer."
Of course he did.
"He was restrained. During that process, he said the phone belonged to Vanessa."
"Does it?"
"They don't know."
Dad asked, "What else?"
The man's expression hardened.
"One of the visible message threads referenced something called Harbor Nine."
My father froze.
It was subtle.
But I saw it.
"What is Harbor Nine?" I asked.
Dad didn't answer.
"Dad."
"An abandoned cargo terminal."
"Your cargo terminal?"
"Not anymore."
He looked toward the window.
"I sold the property twelve years ago."
"Why does Grant have messages about it?"
"I don't know."
But he did know something.
I could tell.
Dr. Shaw placed a protective hand over mine.
"Claire needs rest."
Dad nodded.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Another knock came.
This time, Detective Marcus Hale entered.
He was in his early forties, tired-eyed, rainwater still darkening the shoulders of his jacket.
"Mrs. Mercer?"
"Yes."
"I'm Detective Hale. I'd like to ask you some questions, but only if your doctor clears it."
Dr. Shaw nodded reluctantly.
"Ten minutes."
Hale pulled a chair closer.
"Do you recognize this number?"
He showed me a photograph of the second phone's lock screen.
"No."
"Have you ever seen your husband with a second phone?"
I thought about it.
Then remembered something.
Three weeks earlier, I had walked into the garage and found Grant sitting in his car.
He had been speaking quietly.
When he saw me, he hung up immediately.
I asked who it was.
A client.
But his normal phone had been sitting on the kitchen counter.
"I might have."
Hale took notes.
"Did your husband ever mention Harbor Nine?"
"No."
"Vance Maritime?"
I looked at Dad.
"That's one of my father's companies."
"Did Grant have any relationship with it?"
"No."
Dad corrected me.
"Indirectly."
I turned toward him.
"What does that mean?"
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Grant's construction firm submitted bids to Vance Maritime three times."
"You never told me."
"He asked me not to."
The room went quiet.
Grant had told my father not to tell me?
"Why?"
Dad looked ashamed.
It was an expression I'd almost never seen.
"He said he wanted to succeed without your family connections."
I laughed once.
It hurt my ribs.
"That sounds like him."
"His company didn't qualify for the contracts."
"Did he know that?"
"Yes."
Detective Hale watched us carefully.
"Mr. Vance, did your company ever investigate Mercer Development?"
"Standard due diligence."
"And?"
Dad looked at me.
That pause told me everything.
"What did you find?"
"Nothing criminal."
"But?"
"Grant had financial problems."
My stomach dropped.
"What kind?"
"Debt."
"How much?"
"Approximately four million dollars."
I stared at him.
Grant had told me we were wealthy.
He bought a new Mercedes six months ago.
He leased a lake house.
He wore watches that cost more than some people's homes.
"Four million?"
"That was eighteen months ago."
My mouth went dry.
Detective Hale leaned forward.
"Mrs. Mercer, do you and your husband share financial accounts?"
"Some."
"Does he have access to money belonging to you personally?"
"No."
Then I hesitated.
My grandmother's trust.
Dad saw my face.
"What?"
"When Grandma died, she left me the Bennett Trust."
"I know."
"I never touched it."
"Correct."
"But Grant asked about it."
Dad's expression sharpened.
"When?"
"Last month."
"What did he ask?"
"He wanted to know when I could withdraw the principal."
Dad slowly stood.
The trust was worth approximately twenty-seven million dollars.
My grandmother had structured it so the principal remained protected until I was thirty-five unless specific conditions were met.
I would turn thirty-five in four months.
Detective Hale asked, "Did your husband know the amount?"
"I never told him."
Dad's voice was almost a whisper.
"But I did."
We both looked at him.
"Grant asked me two years ago."
My heartbeat accelerated.
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing."
Hale's phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
His entire posture changed.
"Excuse me."
He stepped into the hallway.
Dad walked to my bedside.
"Claire, listen carefully. Do you have a will?"
I stared at him.
"What?"
"A will."
"Yes."
"Who inherits the Bennett Trust if you die after taking control of it?"
My skin went cold.
"My spouse."
Dad closed his eyes.
I suddenly remembered Grant's sudden fascination with my upcoming birthday.
The vacation he wanted us to take.
The insurance forms he insisted I sign.
The new life insurance policy.
My hands started shaking.
"No."
Dad gripped the bedrail.
"Claire."
"No. He hit me because he was angry. He's horrible, but he wouldn't—"
Detective Hale returned.
His face told me not to finish that sentence.
"We received preliminary information from the phone."
"What information?" Dad asked.
Hale looked directly at me.
"Mrs. Mercer, do you and your husband own a cabin near Lake Everett?"
My mouth went dry.
"Yes."
"Were you planning to go there next weekend?"
My heart stopped.
"Grant planned it. He said it would be romantic."
Detective Hale placed his phone on the table.
A message had been photographed from Grant's second device.
Only one sentence.
But it changed my marriage forever.
AFTER THE LAKE, THE TRUST PROBLEM SOLVES ITSELF.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Then I looked at my father.
May you like
And I realized Grant hadn't only been willing to hurt me.
He may have been waiting for the right moment to make sure I never came home at all.
