Eleanor said, “You’re free to leave, Vivian.”
David stepped aside.
“But,” Eleanor continued, “you may want to hear where the money went.”
Vivian stopped.
Eleanor opened her tablet.
“Transfer one: $1.2 million.”
Grant stared at the floor.
“Transfer two: $1.45 million.”
Vivian’s fingers tightened around her purse.
“Transfer three: $1.6 million.”
I calculated automatically.
$4.25 million.
“Destination?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“A company called VGM Holdings.”
I had never heard of it.
“What is VGM?”
“We’re still investigating.”
Eleanor tapped the screen.
“But the registered mailing address is a private mailbox leased by Vivian Grace Mercer.”
The room became silent.
I turned toward my mother-in-law.
Vivian’s face had lost all color.
“That’s absurd.”
Eleanor didn’t react.
“Is Vivian Grace Mercer your legal name?”
“Thousands of people have those initials.”
“Perhaps.”
Vivian looked at Grant.
“Say something.”
He didn’t.
That frightened her more than any accusation could have.
“Grant?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
I understood then.
They were both involved.
But maybe not equally.
I looked at Vivian.
“What did you do with my money?”
“Your money?”
Her old arrogance flashed back.
“That company would be nothing without my son. You’ve lived off his reputation for years.”
“My trust has been financing his company.”
“He deserved that money.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She stepped closer.
“You had everything handed to you.”
There it was.
Resentment.
Pure and old.
“My husband built his company from nothing.”
“No,” Eleanor said.
Everyone looked at her.
She turned her tablet around.
“According to the records we’ve reviewed tonight, Mercer Development would have become insolvent approximately fourteen months ago without trust-backed financing.”
Grant looked away.
Vivian stared at him.
“You told me the company was profitable.”
He snapped, “Not now, Mother.”
Her expression changed.
Interesting.
Perhaps Vivian knew about the transfers but not the financial condition.
Layers.
There were always layers.
My lip throbbed.
I suddenly felt exhausted.
I looked at David.
“Can Grant stay somewhere else tonight?”
Grant laughed.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
Eleanor answered for me.
“The property belongs to the Bennett Residential Trust. Claire is the designated resident and controlling beneficiary. Your occupancy rights are derivative of the marriage agreement and may be suspended under its domestic safety provision.”
Grant stared at her.
Then at me.
“You planned this?”
“No.”
I touched my injured lip.
“You activated it.”
His expression changed.
For the first time, I saw something beyond anger.
Shame.
Not enough.
But something.
David accompanied Grant upstairs while he packed.
Vivian left without another word.
At the door, however, she turned toward me.
“You think you’ve won.”
I met her eyes.
“This isn’t a game.”
Her smile was thin.
“Everything is a game when enough money is involved.”
Then she disappeared into the night.
Twenty minutes later, Grant followed.
He carried one suitcase.
At the threshold, he stopped.
“Claire.”
I waited.
He looked as if he wanted to apologize.
Instead, he said, “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
The door closed behind him.
Eleanor and I returned to the dining room.
The food had gone cold.
The refinancing papers remained scattered across the table.
My bloodstained napkin sat beside them.
Eleanor touched my shoulder.
“There’s something I didn’t want to say in front of them.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The transfers aren’t the worst thing we found.”
My stomach tightened.
“What could be worse than four million dollars?”
She opened her tablet again.
“Someone has been accessing your father’s dormant holding company.”
I stared at her.
“That company was closed after he died.”
“It was supposed to be.”
She turned the screen toward me.
There were dozens of transactions.
Millions moving through accounts I had never seen.
At the bottom was one authorized-user record.
My name.
My identification number.
My electronic signature.
I looked at Eleanor.
“I didn’t authorize any of this.”
“I know.”
“Then who did?”
She hesitated.
“We found a login device associated with this house.”
I looked toward the dark staircase.
“Where?”
“The east wing.”
Grant’s office.
But Eleanor wasn’t finished.
“The activity began two months before you married him.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
Before our wedding.
Before our marriage.
Before Grant supposedly had access to anything.
And suddenly a terrifying possibility formed.
Grant hadn’t started stealing from me after we married.
He might have married me because he was already stealing.
