Chapter 7 - The Father She Buried
Claire turned in time to see Grant coming out of the terrace doors. His hands were empty, but she knew the expression on his face from the service elevator.
"Mrs. Vale," he said, "your husband wants you inside."
"My husband can ask me himself."
Peter stepped in front of her. "I've called my attorney."
Grant's gaze flicked toward the sirens. "Good luck with that."
He disappeared before the first patrol car reached the driveway.
Peter was trembling so badly he couldn't hold the envelope still. He apologized twice for staying silent after Thomas's supposed death. "They made the books look clean," he said. "At first I thought I could fix it internally. Then every time I raised a question, somebody reminded me where my boy went to school." Claire wanted to demand why he had continued collecting a salary from people who frightened him. Instead, she took a photograph of the documents and sent it to Sophie. The accountant had finally chosen to speak, and whatever courage remained in him would be useful only if he stayed alive.
Claire kept Peter beside her while an officer photographed the broken terrace furniture. She told Detective Rosa Alvarez, newly arrived from the county sheriff's office, about the trapped coordinator and the SUV.
"You need to leave this property," Alvarez said. "Can you go somewhere safe?"
"My sister's apartment."
Claire hesitated. A wedding ring shone on her left hand. She twisted it off and placed it in her purse.
"Before I go, I need something from the bridal suite."
Alvarez accompanied her upstairs. The suite smelled of lilies and hairspray. On the writing desk lay a cream folder with tabs marked SIGN HERE. Claire opened it. Under harmless vendor invoices sat a document transferring her voting rights in the Bennett Foundation's harbor parcel to a Vale subsidiary.
The signature page carried an elaborate imitation of her initials, already stamped beside the witness line.
"That's not mine," she whispered.
Alvarez photographed the page. "Don't touch anything else."
Claire's phone rang from an unlisted number. She almost ignored it, until the voicemail preview appeared.
It was a man's voice, rough and unmistakable.
May you like
"Pumpkin, if this reaches you, I didn't die in that crash. I'm sorry."
It sounded exactly like her father.
