Chapter 5 - What Grant Married Me For
We returned to Blackwood under full security.
I ran to Maisie.
She was safe.
That should have comforted me.
It didn't.
Someone had photographed my daughter inside my father's supposedly secure home.
Richard locked the estate down.
Staff were questioned.
Cameras reviewed.
At 4:30, security found the breach.
Not a stranger.
A member of the catering team had entered a restricted corridor.
His employment documents were false.
He had disappeared.
Grant finally called.
“Are you finished?”
I almost couldn't believe the question.
“Finished with what?”
“This performance.”
“Someone photographed Maisie inside Blackwood.”
Silence.
Then, “What?”
For the first time, he sounded genuinely surprised.
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Sloane—”
“Where?”
“I want to see my daughter.”
“No.”
“She's my child.”
“Then you should have remembered that when Vanessa put her hands on her.”
His voice hardened.
“You cannot keep her from me.”
“I can keep her safe while attorneys and the court sort out what happens next.”
He swore.
Then said something revealing.
“Your father is poisoning you against me.”
“My father didn't need to. You managed it yourself.”
I hung up.
That afternoon, my father's legal team uncovered Grant's financial records.
Debt.
More than twelve million dollars.
Hidden investments.
Shell corporations.
And repeated transfers from a company linked to Hale Meridian contracts.
Grant had been paid for years.
The question was by whom.
Then we found the account.
Opened five years earlier.
Beneficiary: Maisie Whitaker.
Balance: $24 million.
I stared at the screen.
“I never opened this.”
Richard hadn't either.
Deposits began three days after Maisie's birth.
Quarterly.
Always through different entities.
Someone had been putting money aside for my daughter.
“Grant?” I asked.
Richard shook his head.
“The transfers don't originate from him.”
“Then who?”
“We're tracing them.”
My phone rang.
Vanessa.
I answered.
“What?”
“You think Grant used you.”
“I don't think anything anymore. I verify.”
She laughed.
“You've become a Hale quickly.”
“I never stopped being one.”
That silenced her.
“What do you want?”
“To help you.”
“You hurt my child.”
“I scared her. I didn't mean for her to fall.”
“You grabbed her.”
“I lost my temper.”
“With a five-year-old.”
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
For the first time, Vanessa sounded human.
It didn't erase what she had done.
“Why should I listen?”
“Because Grant lied to both of us.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
She told me to check a storage facility in Stamford.
Unit 317.
The rental was in my name.
“I've never rented a storage unit.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I helped him do it.”
My grip tightened.
“Why tell me now?”
“Because Grant is leaving.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Vanessa.”
“He has passports.”
Plural.
“And he has something else.”
“What?”
“Your mother's original trust documents.”
My blood went cold.
Those documents had been missing since shortly after her death.
“Meet me,” I said.
“No.”
“Then send them.”
“I don't have them.”
“Where are they?”
“Storage unit.”
The call ended.
Richard wanted investigators to go first.
I agreed.
At sunset, security opened Unit 317.
Inside were boxes.
Dozens.
My photographs.
Copies of medical records.
Bank statements.
Letters from my father that I had never received.
Birthday cards.
Christmas cards.
One envelope for every year I had been gone.
I sat on the concrete floor and opened the first.
Sloane,
I don't know if you'll read this. I hope wherever you are, you're safe.
I couldn't continue.
Richard turned away.
Then an investigator called from the back.
We found a locked metal cabinet.
Inside were files labeled with dates.
One was the day Grant and I met.
Another our wedding.
Another Maisie's birth.
The final folder was marked:
PHASE THREE — AGE FIVE.
My hands went cold.
Maisie had turned five four months earlier.
I opened it.
There was one sheet inside.
A schedule.
Her school.
Her dance class.
The playground.
And tomorrow's date.
Beside it were four words:
May you like
TRANSFER CHILD. FINAL LEVERAGE.
Then the storage unit door slammed shut behind us.
