Chapter 8 - The Recording Grant Never Expected
The name was Eleanor.
I stared at the frozen screen.
My father shook his head.
“No.”
But doubt had already entered the room.
Eleanor had approached Maisie.
Eleanor had copied my files.
Eleanor knew where we were.
We brought her in.
She didn't run.
When shown Vanessa's video, she looked devastated.
“He found out.”
“Found out what?” I asked.
“That Vanessa contacted me.”
I froze.
“You know her?”
“For three months.”
Eleanor explained that Vanessa had discovered Grant's files and panicked.
She reached out anonymously.
Eleanor recognized details only someone close to Grant could know.
Together, they began gathering evidence.
“Then why did Vanessa say your name?”
“Because I was supposed to meet her at the motel.”
Richard stared.
“You didn't.”
“No. Someone sent me a message from Vanessa's phone telling me the meeting had moved.”
“Where?”
She gave us the address.
An abandoned office belonging to Grant's former consulting company.
Police searched it.
Vanessa wasn't there.
But they found something else.
A laptop.
On it were years of recordings.
Grant had recorded everyone.
Me.
Vanessa.
Martin.
Even Maisie.
He collected fragments that could be edited later.
Arguments without context.
Crying.
Angry words.
Anything that could support his claim that I was unstable.
But Grant had made one fatal mistake.
He recorded himself too.
One video showed him speaking with Martin seven years earlier.
Martin tried to withdraw from the plan.
Grant refused.
Another showed Grant coaching Vanessa.
“If Sloane reacts, keep pushing.”
“Why?”
“Because anger is evidence.”
“And Maisie?”
“She's leverage.”
Vanessa looked uncomfortable.
“She's a kid.”
“So?”
I stopped the video.
My father walked out.
I found him alone on the terrace.
“I should have protected you.”
“You didn't know.”
“I should have known.”
“Dad.”
He turned.
“I spent six years respecting your request for distance while a man dismantled your life.”
“You didn't do this.”
“But I taught you that love and control were connected.”
That silenced me.
He was right about one thing.
Grant's control had felt familiar.
Not identical.
My father had never been cruel.
But after my mother's death, he had managed my life so tightly that I learned to interpret interference as concern.
Grant had exploited that.
“I don't want Maisie learning the same thing,” I said.
“She won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you're leaving.”
I looked at him.
“You stayed longer than you wish you had. But you're leaving.”
My eyes filled.
For once, my father wasn't ordering me.
He was simply standing beside me.
That evening, police obtained a warrant for Grant.
Fraud.
Stalking.
Identity-related offenses.
Evidence tampering.
Possible conspiracy.
But Grant had vanished.
So had Vanessa.
At midnight, my phone rang.
Grant.
I answered.
“Sloane.”
“Where is Vanessa?”
“Safe.”
“I don't believe you.”
“You never believed me.”
“Because you lied from the day we met.”
He sighed.
“I loved you.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“You studied me.”
“Both things can be true.”
That frightened me more than denial.
“You're going to surrender.”
“No.”
“Then why call?”
“To offer you a deal.”
“I don't want one.”
“You will.”
A message arrived.
A live photograph.
Vanessa sat in a chair.
Alive.
Behind her was a window.
And through it, I recognized the old greenhouse at Blackwood.
My childhood home.
Grant was inside the estate.
I looked toward the dark hallway.
Then heard a floorboard creak outside Maisie's bedroom.
May you like
The handle began to move.
Someone was already inside the house.
