Chapter 6 - Noah Heard Something He Wasn’t Supposed to Hear
I read Grant’s message twelve times.
She doesn’t need to.
Not:
She already knows.
Not:
Her father approved it.
Not even:
Call me.
She doesn’t need to.
Rebecca forwarded the email into an evidence folder.
Then she called a financial-crimes attorney she trusted.
By noon, the living room that had once held Christmas gifts and Lego castles was covered with account statements, insurance policies, printouts, and handwritten timelines.
I hated it.
I hated what money had done to the room.
I hated that Dad’s recliner had become the place Rebecca stacked fraud evidence.
I hated that every new document made Grant look less like the man I loved and more like someone who had studied my family.
At one o’clock, I made grilled cheese for the boys.
Wyatt asked why so many papers were on the table.
“Adult stuff.”
Noah frowned.
“Grant stuff?”
I stopped.
“Why do you ask?”
“He talks about papers.”
“When?”
Noah shrugged.
“With Dad.”
“Anything else?”
He bit into his sandwich.
“Dad yelled one time.”
Rebecca sat quietly across the kitchen.
“What did Dad yell?”
I asked.
Noah chewed.
“Don’t remember.”
Wyatt whispered:
“I do.”
My eyes moved to him.
Wyatt rarely volunteered details.
He had become quieter since the crash.
He slept with Mom’s old cardigan under his pillow.
“What did Dad say?”
Wyatt stared at his plate.
“He said Grant wasn’t family yet.”
My skin prickled.
“Why?”
“Because Grant said something about the house.”
“What?”
Wyatt shook his head.
Noah suddenly spoke.
“He said if everybody died, Natalie gets it.”
Rebecca and I looked at each other.
I lowered my voice.
“When did this happen?”
Noah pointed vaguely toward the hallway.
“Dad was in his office.”
“You were there?”
“We were building the train.”
The boys’ wooden train set had often spread across the floor outside Dad’s office.
They could have overheard everything.
“What did Grant say exactly?”
Noah frowned.
“Something like, ‘If you and Mom are gone, Natalie controls the property anyway.’”
My breath caught.
That was not casual.
That was estate language.
“Then what did Dad say?”
Wyatt whispered:
“Get out.”
Noah nodded.
“Dad was mad.”
“Did Grant leave?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he come back?”
Noah looked at Wyatt.
The twins did that sometimes.
Communicated without words.
Finally Wyatt nodded.
“Later.”
“When?”
“Nighttime.”
My heartbeat changed.
“How do you know?”
“I saw him.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
I sat very still.
“What was he doing?”
Wyatt’s fingers tightened around his stuffed bear.
“He was by Daddy’s office.”
Noah frowned.
“You never told me.”
“You were sleeping.”
I asked:
“Did Grant see you?”
Wyatt shook his head.
“What was he doing?”
“He had the blue folder.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“What blue folder?”
Wyatt looked at her nervously.
I touched his hand.
“It’s okay.”
“Daddy’s blue folder.”
“Did Dad have lots of blue folders?”
He shook his head.
“One.”
“Where did he keep it?”
“Top drawer.”
Dad’s desk.
I stood.
Rebecca followed me.
The office door had remained mostly closed since the accident.
I had entered once for tax records.
That was all.
Dad’s smell still lingered.
Coffee.
Wood polish.
Aftershave.
His desk sat beneath the window.
I opened the top drawer.
Empty.
Second drawer.
Pens.
Receipts.
Third.
Files.
No blue folder.
“Grant took it?”
Rebecca asked.
“I don’t know.”
Wyatt stood in the doorway.
“He put it back.”
I turned.
“When?”
“The next day.”
“Where?”
Wyatt walked toward the desk.
He crouched.
Then pointed beneath it.
“He was down there.”
Rebecca and I exchanged a look.
I knelt.
Nothing obvious.
Then I ran my hand under the underside of the desk.
Tape.
Something thin.
I pulled.
A small key fell onto the carpet.
Brass.
Tiny.
I stared at it.
“Dad hid this?”
Wyatt shook his head.
“Grant did.”
My breath stopped.
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Wyatt looked confused.
“Grant said surprises are secret.”
My stomach turned.
Rebecca took a photograph before touching the key.
“What does it open?”
I scanned the room.
Dad had a filing cabinet.
Locked.
The brass key did not fit.
Desk lock.
No.
Small cash box.
No.
Then Noah appeared behind Wyatt.
“The garage.”
“What?”
He pointed.
“Daddy had a little door.”
I had forgotten.
Dad’s workbench in the garage included an old metal drawer cabinet.
One drawer had always been locked.
He kept power-tool warranties and spare vehicle keys there.
We went downstairs.
The boys stayed inside.
Rebecca and I entered the garage.
I found the drawer.
The brass key fit.
Click.
Inside sat a stack of documents.
And an empty space where something larger had once been.
Rebecca lifted the first page.
Insurance printouts.
Grant’s scenario-modeling request.
Copies of emails.
A handwritten timeline.
Dad had been building a file.
Against Grant.
My knees felt weak.
At the bottom was a sticky note.
Natalie—if this folder is incomplete, check camera backup. Workshop camera saves locally. G may know about cloud system, not local card.
I stared.
“G.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Grant.”
Above Dad’s workbench was a small security camera.
I had barely noticed it before.
Dad used cameras around the property after tools disappeared from a neighbor’s garage.
I reached for the device.
A memory card slot sat underneath.
Empty.
“No card.”
Rebecca searched around the cabinet.
Nothing.
Then my phone rang.
Grant.
I declined.
He called again.
Declined.
A text arrived.
Please stop searching your father’s office.
I froze.
Rebecca read it.
Neither of us spoke.
Another message.
This is getting out of control.
My eyes moved toward the garage ceiling.
Toward the camera.
Toward the house.
“How does he know?”
Rebecca whispered:
“Check your security app.”
I opened it.
The account showed two active users.
Me.
And one device labeled:
GH-iPad.
Grant still had remote access to the house cameras.
Rebecca reached for my phone.
“Disconnect him.”
Before I could, the garage camera feed suddenly went black.
Then the front-door camera.
Then the kitchen.
One by one, every camera disconnected.
May you like
Someone had just removed the entire system remotely.
And from inside the house, Noah screamed my name.
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