Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE I THOUGHT WAS MINE
I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the lake.
Our cabin sat on twelve wooded acres outside the city.
No close neighbors.
No streetlights.
Poor cell service.
Grant had bought it two years earlier and called it our escape.
Now I wondered whether escape had ever been its real purpose.
At five thirty in the morning, Detective Hale returned.
Vanessa had been taken to the station for questioning.
Grant had requested an attorney.
Neither had been released.
Dad sat beside my hospital bed with a paper cup of coffee he hadn't touched.
"Claire," Hale said, "we obtained an emergency warrant for the Mercer residence based on the attempted deletion of evidence."
My stomach tightened.
"What did you find?"
"We're still searching."
"Did you find the camera recordings?"
"Yes."
My father finally looked up.
Hale continued.
"The footage appears to support your account."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"The dining room camera captured most of the assault."
I shut my eyes.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead I felt humiliated.
Somewhere, strangers were watching me be beaten in my own home.
Hale seemed to understand.
"The recording is evidence. It isn't entertainment. The people handling it are professionals."
I nodded.
"Thank you."
"We also recovered a small cosmetic case from the guest bathroom."
"What does that matter?"
"It contained theatrical bruise makeup."
Vanessa.
The mark on her shoulder.
Prepared evidence.
Dad's prediction had been correct.
Liars prepare stories.
Stupid liars prepare too much.
"And the second phone?"
"Still being examined."
A nurse entered and checked my IV.
Hale waited until she left.
"There's something else."
I almost laughed.
There was always something else.
"We found documents in Grant's office."
"What documents?"
"Copies of your trust."
My stomach sank.
"He shouldn't have those."
"Do you know how he obtained them?"
"No."
"Some pages contain handwritten notes."
Dad's face hardened.
"What kind of notes?"
"Dates. Asset estimates. Distribution clauses."
Hale looked toward me.
"And the phrase 'surviving spouse' is underlined several times."
My skin prickled.
Then he said something even worse.
"We also found an unsigned draft of a new will."
"I didn't draft a new will."
"We know."
"Whose name was on it?"
"Yours."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Who inherits?"
"Grant."
I looked at Dad.
"Can someone forge a will?"
"They can try," he said.
"But it wouldn't hold up?"
Dad didn't answer fast enough.
"Would it?"
"If prepared correctly, witnessed, and notarized, it could cause a serious legal fight."
My throat tightened.
"What was Grant planning?"
Hale closed his notebook.
"That's what we're trying to establish."
The hospital discharged me that afternoon with strict instructions.
No lifting.
No driving.
Watch for dizziness, bleeding, worsening abdominal pain.
Return immediately if anything changed.
I expected Dad to take me to his estate.
Instead, when we entered the SUV, he asked, "Where do you want to go?"
I stared through the rain-speckled window.
"Home."
His expression hardened.
"Claire."
"I need clothes."
"We can send someone."
"I need to see it."
"Why?"
Because I needed to know whether the life I remembered had ever existed.
"I just do."
Dad studied me.
Then nodded.
The police were still at the property when we arrived.
Yellow evidence tape crossed Grant's office door.
The dining room had been photographed and processed.
My blood was still visible near the marble table.
I stopped.
Dad stood beside me.
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
I walked upstairs slowly.
Every room looked familiar.
And completely different.
Our wedding photo sat on the hallway table.
Grant smiling.
Me leaning against him.
I picked it up.
We looked happy.
Were we?
Or had I just become talented at pretending?
In the bedroom, I opened my closet.
Half my clothes were gone.
I stared.
"Dad?"
He entered.
"What?"
"Someone packed my clothes."
Suitcases sat behind the closet door.
Three of them.
Folded dresses.
Shoes.
Toiletries.
Everything carefully organized.
My father touched none of it.
"Did you pack these?"
"No."
Neither had I.
Then I saw the luggage tags.
One-way flight.
Mexico City.
Departure date: eleven days from now.
My name.
Only my name.
No Grant.
I stopped breathing.
"Why would I have a ticket to Mexico?"
Dad took a photograph with his phone.
"Don't touch anything else."
A detective came upstairs.
He examined the luggage.
"I'll call Hale."
I backed away.
My calf bumped the bedside table.
A drawer slid open.
Inside was Grant's passport.
Vanessa's passport.
And two airline confirmations.
Different destination.
Montreal.
Departure: the morning after my Mexico flight.
They were leaving together.
I sat on the bed.
Pain shot through my ribs.
"Claire."
Dad reached for me.
"I need a minute."
Eleven days.
Grant planned to send me somewhere alone eleven days from now.
Then leave the country with Vanessa twelve hours later.
The lake trip was scheduled first.
My birthday followed months later.
Nothing made sense.
Unless the Mexico ticket wasn't meant to be used.
Unless it was meant to make police believe I had disappeared voluntarily.
Detective Hale arrived twenty minutes later.
He studied the documents.
"Don't assume anything yet."
"What else am I supposed to assume?"
"We follow evidence."
I almost screamed.
"Everything is evidence."
The bruises.
The fake will.
The trust papers.
The message.
The cabin.
The suitcase.
The tickets.
Hale remained calm.
"Which is why we follow all of it."
Dad looked toward him.
"Search the cabin."
"We've requested a warrant."
"Get it."
"Arthur."
It was the first time Hale used his first name.
They knew each other.
I noticed.
"How do you know my father?"
Both men looked at me.
Dad answered.
"Marcus worked financial crimes twelve years ago."
"And?"
"He investigated one of my companies."
I stared at Hale.
"Did you arrest him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because your father's company was the victim."
That surprised me.
Hale looked toward Dad.
"Harbor Nine."
The phrase again.
Dad's expression went flat.
"What happened there?" I asked.
Neither answered.
I stood carefully.
"No more secrets."
Hale exhaled.
"Twelve years ago, someone used shipping containers moving through Harbor Nine to conceal millions of dollars in illegal cash transfers."
My father continued.
"They used my company codes."
"Who?"
"We never proved it."
Hale looked at me.
"The operation disappeared after one accountant vanished."
"Vanished?"
"His car was found near Lake Everett."
My blood turned cold.
"The same lake?"
"Yes."
Dad stared toward the floor.
"The accountant's name was Samuel Cole."
Cole.
Vanessa Cole.
I felt my heartbeat in my throat.
"Was he related to Vanessa?"
Hale nodded.
"Her father."
The entire room went silent.
Vanessa hadn't entered our marriage because she wanted Grant.
Not originally.
She had a connection to my father's company reaching back twelve years.
A connection involving a missing accountant.
A lake.
And now me.
Hale's phone rang.
He answered.
"Hale."
He listened.
Then his face changed.
"When?"
Another pause.
"Don't touch it. I'm coming."
He hung up.
"What?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"They got into the cabin."
My fingers went numb.
"And?"
Hale hesitated.
"In the garage, they found your car."
"My car is here."
"Your current car is."
I stared at him.
"What are you talking about?"
He swallowed.
"They found the Mercedes you supposedly totaled three years ago."
My breath caught.
Three years earlier, Grant told me the car had been destroyed after a mechanic crashed it during a test drive.
Insurance had paid the claim.
I never saw it again.
Hale continued.
"The vehicle isn't totaled."
"Then why is it at the cabin?"
"They opened the trunk."
Dad's face hardened.
"What was inside?"
Detective Hale looked directly at me.
"A suitcase."
"Mine?"
"No."
May you like
He paused.
"It belonged to Samuel Cole."
