Chapter 3 - The Photograph Richard Hid
Richard Hayes walked out of the elevator and saw the photograph in my hand.
He stopped so abruptly that Grant nearly walked into him.
For three long seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Richard said, “Claire, don't give that photograph to my son.”
Grant turned toward him.
“What photograph?”
Richard didn't answer.
Grant looked at me instead.
His eyes dropped to the picture.
And all the color left his face.
That reaction terrified me.
I tightened my fingers around the photograph.
“Who is the boy?”
Grant took one step toward me.
“Claire.”
“No.”
I backed away.
Daniel, the concierge, had stopped speaking into the phone behind his desk. He was pretending not to watch us, but there was no hiding the tension in the lobby.
Richard remained beside the elevator.
At sixty-eight, Grant's father could silence a boardroom simply by entering it. He had built Hayes Meridian from nothing and spent thirty years making sure everyone knew it. He was controlled, polished, almost impossible to embarrass.
But now his eyes were fixed on the envelope.
Not on Grant.
On the envelope.
“Who is the boy?” I repeated.
Grant rubbed his jaw.
“That photograph is old.”
“I can read dates.”
“Then you know it was before we were married.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Richard finally moved.
“Grant,” he said, “you should tell her.”
Grant swung toward him.
“You don't get to say that.”
Richard's expression didn't change.
“I warned you.”
“You manipulated this entire situation.”
“I warned you four years ago.”
My heart thudded.
“Four years ago?”
Grant stared at his father.
Richard looked at me.
“Read the rest of the letter.”
Grant immediately stepped forward.
“Dad.”
Richard ignored him.
“Read it, Claire.”
Grant reached for the envelope.
I pulled it against my chest.
“Don't touch me.”
He froze.
The hurt in his face might once have made me apologize.
Not tonight.
I unfolded Richard's note.
My hands shook so badly the paper rattled.
Claire—
If you're reading this, Grant has already lied to you about why he needed your signature.
I looked at Richard.
“You wrote this when?”
“Six weeks ago.”
Grant stared at him.
“You've been planning this for six weeks?”
“I've been trying to stop you for six months.”
“Stop me from saving your company?”
“From destroying yourself to save it.”
I looked between them.
“Can somebody remember that my name is apparently attached to six million dollars of debt?”
Richard's attention returned to me.
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
His pause answered before his mouth did.
“Yes.”
I felt physically sick.
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
“You knew my signature wasn't real?”
“I suspected it.”
“And you didn't call me?”
“I was gathering evidence.”
I laughed.
It came out broken.
“Evidence?”
“Claire—”
“You ate dinner at my table nine days ago.”
Richard went silent.
“You sat across from me,” I continued, “asked about my mother, drank my wine, and knew someone had put my name on millions of dollars of liability.”
“I didn't know the extent of it then.”
“But you knew enough to write this.”
I held up the letter.
Richard's face hardened with something that might have been shame.
“Yes.”
“Everyone knew except me.”
“No,” Grant said.
I turned on him.
“You don't get to comfort me.”
“I wasn't trying to.”
“That might be worse.”
His mouth closed.
I looked at the photograph again.
The woman beside Grant appeared to be around thirty. Dark hair. Blue coat. One hand rested protectively on the shoulder of a boy who looked five or six.
Grant looked younger.
But unmistakably Grant.
The boy had dark hair too.
I hated myself for searching his face for similarities.
Same chin?
Same eyes?
Was I imagining them?
“Is he your son?”
“No.”
Grant answered immediately.
This time I believed the speed of his answer differently.
Not panic.
Certainty.
“Then who is he?”
Grant looked at Richard.
His father gave him nothing.
“The woman is Rebecca Sloan,” Grant said.
The name meant nothing to me.
“She worked for Hayes Meridian?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
The word hurt even though it shouldn't have.
We had both dated people before each other.
“Serious?”
Grant hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How serious?”
“We were engaged.”
The lobby seemed to tilt.
I stared at him.
“You were engaged before me?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“It ended badly.”
“That doesn't explain why you hid it.”
“I didn't hide every relationship I had before you.”
“An engagement isn't every relationship.”
“I know.”
“Did she leave you?”
Grant's jaw flexed.
“No.”
“Did you leave her?”
“Yes.”
I looked down at the photograph.
“And the boy?”
“Her brother.”
I blinked.
“Her brother?”
“Ethan.”
I turned the photograph over.
Eight years ago.
If Ethan had been six then, he'd be fourteen now.
“Why did your father hide a photograph of your ex-fiancée and her little brother inside a folder containing fraudulent financial documents?”
Grant's eyes moved to Richard.
Richard answered.
“Because Rebecca disappeared three days after that photograph was taken.”
The sentence hit me harder than I expected.
“Disappeared?”
Grant looked furious.
“She didn't disappear.”
Richard's eyes sharpened.
“You never proved that.”
“She left.”
“Without her bank cards?”
“She wanted a clean break.”
“Without her passport?”
Grant's voice rose.
“Stop.”
Daniel looked toward us again.
Richard lowered his voice.
“She abandoned her apartment. She left her job. She never collected two months of salary. Her car remained in a courthouse parking garage.”
I looked at Grant.
“What happened?”
“She left me.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don't know.”
“Did the police investigate?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They found nothing.”
Richard added quietly, “Because Grant told them she'd threatened to disappear.”
Grant stared at his father.
“She did.”
“Did you believe him?” I asked Richard.
“No.”
Grant gave a bitter laugh.
“There it is.”
Richard didn't react.
“My father has spent eight years believing I somehow caused Rebecca's disappearance.”
“I believe you know more than you told the police.”
“You have no proof.”
“I have enough to know you're lying again.”
Grant stepped closer to him.
“You want to do this here?”
Richard didn't move.
“You brought your wife into a financial fraud. Where would you prefer?”
“Stop.”
My voice surprised both of them.
They looked at me.
I felt exhausted.
Not sleepy.
Hollow.
As if someone had spent the evening removing pieces of my life and replacing them with things I didn't recognize.
I folded the photograph into the letter.
“My car is coming.”
Grant moved toward me.
“Claire, please don't leave with that folder.”
“Why?”
“Because company records are confidential.”
“My name is in them.”
“I'll have Martin make copies of everything related to you.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I said no.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Where are you going?”
“A hotel.”
“I'll come with you.”
“No.”
“To explain.”
“You've been explaining all night.”
“I haven't told you everything.”
That stopped me.
Richard watched him carefully.
“What haven't you told me?”
Grant glanced toward his father.
Then toward Daniel.
“Not here.”
I laughed again.
“That's becoming another favorite phrase.”
“Because this involves people besides us.”
“Rebecca?”
His face tightened.
“Partly.”
“Is she alive?”
“I don't know.”
The answer was quieter than I expected.
And somehow more frightening.
“Did you hurt her?”
Grant looked directly into my eyes.
“No.”
I wanted to believe him.
Despite everything, some instinct inside me screamed that Grant Hayes was arrogant, secretive, controlling, and capable of betraying my trust.
But not violence.
Maybe love was making me stupid.
Or maybe seven years meant I knew something Richard didn't.
I couldn't tell anymore.
Daniel approached carefully.
“Mrs. Hayes?”
I turned.
“Your car is outside.”
“Thank you.”
I reached for my suitcase.
Grant grabbed the handle.
“Let me take it.”
I put my hand over his.
“Let go.”
“Claire.”
“Let go of my suitcase.”
He did.
Richard spoke.
“Don't go to a hotel.”
I looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
“If Grant's financial situation is as exposed as I believe, reporters may begin watching properties associated with the family.”
“I don't care.”
“You will when someone photographs you leaving alone at two in the morning.”
“Then they can photograph me.”
Richard studied me.
For once, he seemed to understand that reputation had stopped mattering.
“My driver can take you somewhere private.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“I don't want anything from another Hayes tonight.”
That silenced both men.
I walked outside.
The August air felt thick against my skin.
A black sedan waited beneath the awning.
The driver opened the rear door.
I put my suitcase in the trunk myself.
Grant followed me outside.
“Claire.”
I didn't turn.
“Please.”
I stopped.
It was the second time that night.
Grant Hayes rarely begged.
That made it dangerous.
I faced him.
He stood beneath the lights in his white shirt, hair disheveled, looking less like the man from magazine covers and more like the twenty-eight-year-old I had once loved.
“I made mistakes,” he said.
“Mistakes?”
“I panicked.”
“You used my signature.”
“I was going to reverse everything.”
“When?”
“As soon as the financing cleared.”
“And if it didn't?”
He had no answer.
I nodded.
“That is what I thought.”
“Claire, I was trying to keep thousands of people employed.”
“Then why didn't you ask me?”
“Because you would have said no.”
There it was.
The cleanest truth he'd given me all night.
I stared at him.
“So you knew I wouldn't consent.”
“Yes.”
“And you did it anyway.”
His eyes dropped.
“Yes.”
Something broke.
Quietly.
Not my love.
That would have been easier.
My trust.
I opened the car door.
Grant caught it before I could close it.
“There's one thing you need to know about Rebecca.”
I looked at him.
He swallowed.
“She contacted me last year.”
My hand froze on the door.
“What?”
Richard appeared behind him.
“What did you say?”
Grant looked over his shoulder.
Richard's face had changed completely.
“You told me there had been no contact.”
“There hadn't been until last year.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“What did she want?”
Grant looked back at me.
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Two million.”
“Why?”
“She said she had something that could destroy Hayes Meridian.”
Richard stepped forward.
“What?”
“She wouldn't tell me over the phone.”
“Did you meet her?”
Grant hesitated.
Richard's voice became deadly quiet.
“Did you meet Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Eleven months ago.”
“Where?”
“A hotel in Boston.”
My stomach twisted.
Boston.
I had been there eleven months ago too.
My mother's medical appointments.
Grant had flown up for one night.
He had told me he was meeting an investor.
“What happened?”
“She never showed.”
Richard stared at him.
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
“You always touch your watch when you lie.”
Grant's hand stopped.
It was resting against his wristwatch.
He lowered it slowly.
I stared.
I had never noticed that habit.
Richard apparently had.
Grant looked at me.
“I went to the hotel.”
“And?”
“She wasn't there.”
“Then why lie?”
“Because I didn't want you knowing about Rebecca.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew what it would look like.”
“What would it look like?”
He didn't answer.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number again.
I looked down.
A photograph loaded.
My breath caught.
It showed Grant entering a hotel room.
Timestamp:
11:42 p.m.
Eleven months ago.
Another photograph arrived.
12:17 a.m.
Grant leaving the same room.
There was blood on the cuff of his shirt.
I looked up at him.
“What happened in that room?”
Grant stared at my phone.
His face went white.
“Where did you get that?”
“What happened?”
“Claire, listen to me.”
“Whose blood is that?”
“It isn't what you think.”
I stepped backward.
Grant moved toward me.
I raised a hand.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Richard came closer.
“What blood?”
I showed him.
His face hardened.
“Grant.”
Grant looked trapped.
For the first time since I'd known him, genuinely trapped.
“The blood was mine.”
“From what?”
“I cut my hand.”
“Show me the scar.”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
I got into the car.
Grant caught the door again.
“Claire, whoever is texting you is manipulating you.”
“At least they're giving me information.”
“You don't know who they are.”
“Neither do you.”
His expression told me I was wrong.
I stared at him.
“You know.”
“No.”
“You know who's sending these.”
“I have an idea.”
“Who?”
He glanced at Richard.
“Ethan.”
The boy from the photograph.
Rebecca's younger brother.
I remembered his face.
Six years old.
Standing between his sister and Grant.
“He's fourteen.”
“Fifteen now.”
“Why would a fifteen-year-old have photographs from a Boston hotel?”
“Because Rebecca sent him everything.”
“Before she disappeared again?”
Grant said nothing.
My pulse accelerated.
Again.
I hadn't even noticed the word until now.
“You said she contacted you last year.”
“Yes.”
“And now she's missing again?”
“I don't know.”
Richard grabbed Grant's shoulder.
“What have you done?”
Grant pulled away.
“Nothing.”
“You met her.”
“I told you—”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
All three of us stared at it.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Then breathing.
A boy's voice.
Quiet.
Terrified.
“Claire Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“Don't trust Grant.”
I looked at my husband.
Grant stared back.
“Are you Ethan?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Are you safe?”
Another pause.
“No.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What happened to Rebecca?”
Silence.
Then I heard something in the background.
A door.
Ethan whispered, “Someone's here.”
“Ethan?”
No answer.
“Ethan, listen to me. Call the police.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because they already came.”
My blood went cold.
“What does that mean?”
His breathing quickened.
Then he whispered something that made Richard grab the side of the car.
“Rebecca left something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“I've never met her.”
“She knew who you were.”
“Where is it?”
“I'll send you the address.”
“Ethan, stay on the phone.”
“I can't.”
“Please.”
A sound came through the line.
Footsteps.
Ethan stopped breathing.
Then the call disconnected.
A text arrived immediately.
An address in Brooklyn.
Grant saw it over my shoulder.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“You are not going there.”
“You don't decide that.”
“Claire, listen to me. Ethan isn't telling you everything.”
“And you are?”
Grant's face tightened.
I closed the door.
The driver pulled away.
Grant stood in the street watching us disappear.
I told the driver to take me to the address.
Twenty-seven minutes later, we stopped outside an old brick apartment building in Brooklyn.
I carried the folder inside.
Third floor.
Apartment 3C.
The hallway was silent.
I found the door.
It was slightly open.
“Ethan?”
Nothing.
I pushed it wider.
The apartment was dark.
My phone flashlight swept across overturned furniture.
A broken lamp.
Papers scattered across the floor.
Then I saw a small metal lockbox beneath the kitchen table.
My name was taped across the lid.
CLAIRE HAYES.
I knelt beside it.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Ethan.
DON'T OPEN IT YET.
I froze.
Another message arrived.
YOU'RE NOT ALONE.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I slowly turned.
May you like
Someone was standing in the bedroom doorway.
And the woman in the photograph was staring directly at me.
