Chapter 4 - WHAT GRANT KNEWMy brother had spent eleven years pretending he remembered nothing about Vermont.
That lie lasted another nine minutes.
Police separated everyone.
My father immediately demanded attorneys.
Grant did something unexpected.
He asked to speak with me.
Alone.
Roman refused.
“So do I,” I said.
Roman looked at me.
“I need answers.”
“He’s lied to you your whole life.”
“So has everyone else.”
Grant flinched.
Roman finally agreed, but only after Daniel checked the room and remained outside.
Grant sat opposite me in Emily’s small kitchen.
He looked older than thirty-eight.
“What happened?” I asked.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I was twenty-one when Dad sent you to Vermont.”
“You helped him.”
“I know.”
“You held me while Malcolm—”
“I know!”
He stood abruptly.
I recoiled.
Grant froze.
Then slowly sat again.
“I’m sorry.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“No.”
“Nothing will ever be enough.”
“I know.”
I hated how tired he looked because sympathy felt like betrayal.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I was a coward.”
The answer surprised me.
No excuse.
No justification.
“At first Dad told me you were sick. That you were going to expose things you didn’t understand. He said if Whitmore Atlantic collapsed, thousands of employees would lose their jobs.”
“So you believed hurting me saved people?”
“I wanted to believe anything that made me less disgusting.”
I stared at him.
“The first time Malcolm hurt you, I almost called the police.”
“Almost.”
Grant lowered his head.
“Dad knew.”
“What?”
“He knew I was thinking about turning on him. He took me to a house in Rhode Island.”
My stomach tightened.
“Emily?”
“She was alive.”
I stopped breathing.
“He showed me through a window. She was eight. Then Dad told me if I ever betrayed him, she would disappear permanently.”
My eyes burned.
“So you stayed quiet.”
“Yes.”
“For seventeen years?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“You don’t get forgiveness because you were afraid.”
“I’m not asking for it.”
“Good.”
“But I can help find her.”
That stopped me.
Grant reached inside his coat slowly.
He removed an old phone.
“Six months ago she called me.”
“How did she get your number?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she want?”
“To know whether you were safe.”
My throat tightened.
“She asked about me?”
“First thing.”
I looked away.
“She knew Dad was arranging your marriage to Roman. She thought the Vale family might be the only people powerful enough to protect you.”
“So Emily wanted the marriage?”
“She wanted you out of Dad’s direct control.”
The idea stunned me.
I had believed my father arranged the wedding because he wanted Roman’s shipping routes.
Perhaps he had.
But somewhere in hiding, Emily had seen another possibility.
“She told me she had evidence about Mom,” Grant continued.
“The letter.”
Grant nodded.
“And about Anthony Vale.”
“Why didn’t you tell Roman?”
“Because Malcolm found out Emily contacted me.”
My heart accelerated.
“How?”
“I was careless.”
“What did he do?”
“He demanded Emily’s location. I lied.”
“Did he believe you?”
“For a while.”
“And now?”
Grant looked toward the window.
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“You said safe house.”
Grant unlocked the phone.
A map appeared.
“There’s a farmhouse outside Litchfield. I bought it through a shell company three months ago. Emily and Lily were supposed to go there if anything happened.”
“Lily is her daughter?”
“She’s seven.”
Seven.
A niece I had never met.
“Why would Emily run from her home but leave her purse?”
“She wouldn’t.”
My blood went cold.
Grant looked at me.
“Someone intercepted her.”
We moved quickly.
Roman listened to Grant’s explanation without trusting a single word.
“I’m coming,” I said.
“No,” both men replied.
I looked at Roman.
He exhaled.
“Right. I promised not to decide for you.”
Grant frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
We left my father with police and attorneys.
Malcolm had disappeared from the wedding shortly after midnight.
His phone was off.
His Manhattan apartment was empty.
Daniel traced one of Malcolm’s vehicles north.
Toward Litchfield County.
The farmhouse sat beyond acres of bare trees.
We arrived just before sunset.
The front gate was open.
Grant swore.
“It should be locked.”
Roman’s security vehicles surrounded the property.
Daniel went first.
Then we heard a gunshot.
Roman shoved me behind the SUV.
“Stay down.”
Another shot.
Then silence.
My entire body shook.
Daniel’s voice came through Roman’s phone.
“One hostile fleeing toward the tree line. House secure.”
Roman grabbed my hand.
We ran.
The farmhouse door hung open.
Inside, furniture had been overturned.
A lamp smashed.
Blood marked the floor.
“Emily!”
No answer.
I ran upstairs.
“Emily!”
A child whimpered.
I stopped.
Closet.
I opened it.
A little girl crouched behind coats holding a kitchen knife with both hands.
Blond hair.
Blue eyes.
My mother’s eyes.
“Don’t come closer!”
I dropped to my knees.
“Lily?”
She trembled.
“How do you know my name?”
“My name is Claire.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“Aunt Claire?”
My heart broke open.
“Yes.”
She dropped the knife.
Then launched herself at me.
I held my niece for the first time in my life while she sobbed into my shoulder.
“Where’s your mother?”
“They took her.”
“Who?”
“Two men.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“One was Uncle Malcolm.”
Behind me, Roman went still.
“And the other?”
Lily looked toward Grant.
Her face changed.
“No.”
Grant stepped backward.
“What?”
Lily pressed against me.
“That’s him.”
Grant turned pale.
“Claire, no.”
“That’s the other man!”
Roman’s security team immediately grabbed Grant.
“No!” Grant shouted. “I wasn’t here!”
Lily screamed.
I covered her ears.
Grant struggled.
“I swear to God, Claire!”
“Stop.”
“You have to believe me!”
“Why?”
He froze.
It was a simple question.
Why should I believe him after seventeen years of lies?
Daniel searched Grant.
His phone.
Wallet.
Keys.
Then something fell from his coat pocket.
A silver necklace.
Lily gasped.
“That’s Mommy’s!”
Grant stared at it.
“I’ve never seen that.”
Roman picked it up.
Fresh blood marked the clasp.
My brother’s face collapsed.
“Someone planted it.”
“Convenient,” Roman said.
Grant looked at me.
“Claire, think. Why would I bring you here if I had taken her?”
Because he expected me to believe that argument.
Because perhaps it was true.
Or perhaps he had brought us here to control the story.
Lily whispered something.
“What, sweetheart?”
She pointed at Grant.
“The man looked like him.”
“Looked like?”
She nodded.
“But he had a scar here.”
She touched her chin.
Grant had none.
Roman and I exchanged a look.
“Grant,” I said. “Does Malcolm know anyone who resembles you?”
My brother stopped moving.
Then his face drained of color.
“One person.”
“Who?”
“Our cousin.”
I remembered a boy I had not seen since childhood.
Malcolm’s son.
Damian Whitmore.
Officially, Damian had moved to Europe fifteen years ago.
Grant whispered, “Damian came home last month.”
Roman swore.
Then Daniel’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Turned toward us.
“Police found Malcolm’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Abandoned near the interstate.”
“And Emily?”
Daniel hesitated.
“No Emily.”
“Then where is she?”
His eyes moved toward Grant.
“They found a second phone inside the vehicle.”
Grant swallowed.
Daniel continued.
“Three calls were made from it this afternoon.”
“To whom?”
The room went still.
“Charles Whitmore.”
My father.
Roman took out his phone.
“Get every officer back to the city.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because your father never wanted Emily hidden forever.”
Understanding hit me.
“He wants the evidence.”
“And once he has it…”
Roman didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to.
My phone suddenly rang.
Unknown number.
Everyone froze.
I answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, silence.
Then I heard breathing.
“Claire?”
I nearly collapsed.
“Emily?”
A sob came through the phone.
My sister.
Alive.
“Claire, listen to me. Dad knows about the dollhouse.”
My heart stopped.
“Where are you?”
“He’s taking me to Southampton.”
“Emily—”
“You have to get there first.”
A man shouted in the background.
Emily rushed the final words.
“Mom hid more than documents inside it.”
The call cut.
I stared at Roman.
“What did she mean?”
I remembered the dollhouse.
Its tiny rooms.
Its miniature furniture.
And something Mother had told me the week before Emily supposedly died.
Every house has secrets, sweetheart. Smart women learn which walls are hollow.
I looked at Roman.
“The dollhouse isn’t evidence.”
“What is it?”
May you like
I finally understood.
“It’s a map.”
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