PART 4

“Grant.”

“I don’t know.”

“You were with her.”

“I told you, I panicked.”

“You told me it was empty.”

“I thought it was.”

“You threw away her backpack.”

“I thought it was contaminated.”

“You cleaned the kitchen before I came home.”

“Because I couldn’t stand looking at it.”

“You’ve had an answer for everything.”

He rubbed his face.

“Because I’m trying to survive this too.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“I am.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“You aren’t.”

Grant suddenly slammed his palm against the counter.

“Enough!”

I flinched.

He immediately lowered his voice.

“Sorry.”

I stared at him.

He looked at his hand as if surprised by his own anger.

Then he said quietly,

“You need sleep.”

“No.”

“You haven’t eaten properly.”

“No.”

“You need help.”

“I need the truth.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

“Some truths won’t bring Lucy back.”

I felt my heart stop.

It was such an innocent sentence.

Such a reasonable sentence.

But something about it sounded like a warning.

I took one step backward.

Grant noticed.

“Nat?”

“I’m going upstairs.”

He nodded.

“Good.”

I walked past him.

But I didn’t go upstairs.

I went into the small office beside the kitchen.

I closed the door.

Locked it.

Then I sat behind Grant’s desk.

This was his private space.

He always told me there was nothing interesting inside.

Tax records.

Business documents.

Old contracts.

Nothing I needed to worry about.

Tonight, I opened every drawer.

The first two contained ordinary paperwork.

The third contained receipts.

The fourth contained pens and cables.

Then I noticed the bottom drawer was locked.

I searched the desk.

No key.

I looked at the bookshelf.

Nothing.

Then I remembered the way Grant had reacted when I mentioned Vanessa.

Not anger.

Fear.

I opened his laptop.

Password protected.

I knew the password.

Or I thought I did.

I typed Lucy’s birthday.

Wrong.

Our wedding anniversary.

Wrong.

His mother’s birthday.

Wrong.

I stopped.

Then tried the date Lucy died.

The screen opened.

I stared at it.

Grant had changed his password after Lucy died.

To the date of her death.

My stomach twisted.

I opened his email.

Thousands of messages.

Work.

Bills.

Insurance.

Nothing.

Then I searched one word.

Vanessa.

Twenty-seven results.

I clicked the newest.

It was from three days before Lucy died.

The subject line was:

We need to stop.

The message contained only one sentence.

You promised me she wouldn’t be involved.

My hands began shaking.

I clicked the reply.

Grant had written:

She won’t know anything. Just follow the plan.

I covered my mouth.

I kept reading.

The next email was from Vanessa.

What about Lucy?

Grant’s response:

I’ll handle Lucy.

I stopped.

The room blurred.

I couldn’t breathe.

I scrolled.

There were no more replies.

Then I saw an attachment.

A PDF.

I opened it.

It was a daycare authorization form.

Lucy was listed as the child.

Grant’s name appeared under emergency contact.

But beneath it was another name.

Vanessa Reed — Authorized pickup.

The authorization date was six weeks earlier.

I had never signed it.

I stared at the screen.

My daughter had been taken out of daycare by Vanessa before.

Without my knowledge.

I kept scrolling.

Another email.

Another attachment.

Then a photo.

It showed Vanessa standing beside Lucy.

They were outside a grocery store.

Lucy wasn’t smiling.

Her little hand was gripping Vanessa’s sleeve.

I zoomed in.

Lucy was holding something.

A small blue toy.

No.

Not a toy.

A bracelet.

Blue fabric.

My heart began pounding.

The same color as the thread Daniel had found in Lucy’s hand.

I saved the photo to my phone.

Then I heard the office door handle move.

I nearly dropped the laptop.

“Nat?”

Grant.

I closed the email.

“One second.”

The handle stopped moving.

“Why did you lock the door?”

I looked around.

“Because I needed privacy.”

Silence.

Then:

“Open the door.”

I didn’t move.

“Nat.”

His voice was different now.

Not gentle.

Not grieving.

Controlled.

“Open the door.”

I opened the laptop again.

The screen showed another email.

This one had been sent two months earlier.

From Vanessa.

She knows about the allergy. We have to be careful.

Grant replied:

That’s why I chose the daycare.

I stared at the sentence.

My stomach turned.

That’s why I chose the daycare.

The daycare.

Little Pines.

I had thought I chose it because of its allergy protocols.

But Grant had insisted on Little Pines.

He had said it was closer to his office.

He had said the teachers seemed experienced.

He had said Lucy would love it.

Why had he actually chosen it?

I heard the door handle move again.

“Nat.”

I quickly forwarded the emails to myself.

Then I took photographs of the screen.

I closed the laptop.

I unlocked the door.

Grant stood outside.

He looked at me.

Then at the desk.

“What were you doing?”

“Looking for Lucy’s medical records.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You could have asked me.”

“I didn’t think you’d give them to me.”

“What does that mean?”

I walked past him.

He grabbed my wrist.

Not hard.

But enough.

I looked down at his hand.

He released me immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

I pulled my arm away.

“Don’t touch me.”

His face changed.

“Nat…”

“I need to go to my mother’s.”

“You can’t drive like this.”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“At four in the morning?”

“Yes.”

He stepped in front of me.

“You’re not leaving.”

I looked at him.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why can’t I leave?”

“I don’t want you alone.”

“Or you don’t want me talking to anyone?”

He went silent.

That was when I knew.

I walked around him.

He didn’t stop me.

I went upstairs.

Packed a bag.

Took Lucy’s stuffed rabbit.

Then I remembered the tiny white urn.

I couldn’t leave her behind.

I carried it downstairs.

Grant stood by the front door.

His face was pale.

“You’re really leaving?”

“I need time.”

“We’re married.”

“I know.”

“We’re supposed to be grieving together.”

I looked at him.

“We were.”

He flinched.

Then I left.

I didn’t go to my mother’s.

I went somewhere else.

My law office.

The building was empty, but I had access.

I locked myself inside a conference room and opened the files I had saved.

Then I called Paige.

She answered immediately.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Is Grant with you?”

“No.”

She exhaled.

“Good.”

“Paige, I need you to tell me everything.”

There was silence.

Then she said,

“Lucy was scared of Vanessa.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long had she known her?”

“About two months.”

“Did Vanessa ever pick her up?”

Paige hesitated.

“Three times.”

My chest tightened.

“You knew?”

“Grant gave permission.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you call me?”

“I tried.”

“What?”

“I called the number listed on Lucy’s emergency file.”

“That was my number.”

“I know.”

“Nobody called me.”

Paige’s voice became quiet.

“Someone changed the emergency contact number.”

I froze.

“What?”

“Your number was still there, but someone had added another number as the primary contact.”

“Whose?”

“Vanessa’s.”

I closed my eyes.

“Paige.”

“Yes?”

“Why did Lucy say ‘milk lady’?”

Paige inhaled.

“Because Vanessa used to bring her snacks.”

My eyes opened.

“What snacks?”

“Cookies.”

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

My stomach dropped.

“Paige, did Lucy ever eat them?”

“She said no.”

“Did Vanessa ever insist?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“The day before Lucy died.”

I gripped the phone.

“What happened?”

“Lucy refused the cookie.”

“Then what?”

“Vanessa became angry.”

“How angry?”

“Enough that I stepped in.”

My voice became barely audible.

“What did Vanessa say?”

Paige paused.

Then whispered:

“She told Lucy that if she kept being difficult, Mommy would disappear.”

I couldn’t speak.

Paige continued.

“I asked Vanessa to leave.”

“And Grant?”

“He came ten minutes later.”

My blood ran cold.

“Did he say anything?”

“He asked why I had upset Vanessa.”

I felt tears filling my eyes.

“Paige…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

I wiped my face.

“Don’t apologize.”

Then Paige said something else.

Something that changed the entire case.

“Natalie, there’s one thing I haven’t told you.”

“What?”

“Lucy left something with me.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“A drawing.”

“Of what?”

“A woman.”

“Vanessa?”

“No.”

Paige’s voice trembled.

“Of your husband.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“What did she draw?”

“A house.”

“And Grant?”

“He was standing outside it.”

“Was Lucy in the drawing?”

“No.”

“Then who was inside?”

Paige was silent.

“Three people.”

My stomach tightened.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

“Vanessa?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Paige whispered:

“Another little girl.”

I felt the room tilt.

“What little girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Paige, please.”

“I didn’t understand it at first.”

“What did Lucy say?”

Paige took a breath.

“She pointed at the drawing and said…”

Another pause.

“That’s Daddy’s other family.”

I couldn’t move.

My daughter’s words echoed in my head.

Daddy’s other family.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

There was no text.

Only a photograph.

I opened it.

It was a picture of Grant.

Standing beside Vanessa.

And between them…

was a little girl.

She looked about five years old.

She had Grant’s eyes.

I stared at the screen.

Then another message arrived.

You have been asking the wrong question, Natalie.

I typed:

Who are you?

The reply came immediately.

Someone who tried to warn Lucy.

Then:

And someone who knows why your husband needed her gone.

I stared at the message until the letters blurred.

Someone who tried to warn Lucy.

My hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped the phone.

I typed:

Who are you?

The reply came almost immediately.

My name is Rachel Miller. I used to work for Grant.

I swallowed.

What happened to Lucy?

This time, there was no immediate answer.

Then:

You need to meet me before you confront your husband.

I looked around the empty conference room.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

My daughter’s urn sat beside my laptop.

For five days, I had been drowning in guilt.

Now someone was telling me my husband might have been responsible for her death.

I typed:

Where?

Rachel sent an address.

A small twenty-four-hour diner fifteen minutes from my office.

Then another message appeared.

Come alone. Do not tell Grant.

I didn’t tell anyone.

I drove there.

Rachel was sitting in a booth at the back.

She looked exhausted.

Early thirties.

Dark hair.

Gray sweater.

Her hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee she wasn’t drinking.

When she saw me, she stood.

“Mrs. Cole?”

“Rachel?”

She nodded.

Then she looked at the urn in my hands.

Her face fell.

“I’m sorry.”

I sat across from her.

“You said you tried to warn Lucy.”

“I did.”

“Tell me everything.”

Rachel looked toward the window.

“Grant and I worked together for almost four years.”

“At his company?”

“Yes.”

“What does that have to do with my daughter?”

“Everything.”

I waited.

Rachel finally whispered,

“Grant has another daughter.”

I already knew that.

“I saw the picture.”

Rachel nodded.

“Her name is Sophie.”

“Who is her mother?”

“Vanessa.”

My stomach tightened.

“So Vanessa is his mistress.”

“She was.”

“What does that mean?”

“Grant promised Vanessa he would leave you.”

I closed my eyes.

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because of money.”

I looked at her.

“What money?”

Rachel leaned forward.

“Your money.”

I felt confused.

“My money?”

“Your law firm partnership. Your inheritance. The house. The investment accounts.”

I shook my head.

“Those are mostly mine.”

“Exactly.”

She pulled a folder from her bag.

“I discovered this six months ago.”

She pushed it toward me.

Inside were copies of financial documents.

I scanned them.

My name appeared repeatedly.

Property.

Trust.

Investment accounts.

Life insurance.

Then I saw something I hadn’t known existed.

A life insurance policy.

My name was the insured person.

Grant was the beneficiary.

The amount was $3 million.

I stared at it.

“When was this created?”

“Seven months ago.”

“I never signed this.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“Grant.”

I looked up.

“That’s impossible.”

“Your signature was forged.”

My hands went cold.

Rachel continued.

“There was another policy.”

“Whose?”

“Lucy.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“How much?”

“One million dollars.”

I closed the folder.

“No.”

Rachel reached across the table.

“Listen to me.”

I pulled my hand away.

“No.”

“I know this is horrible.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think.”

She opened another folder.

“Grant had debts.”

“What kind?”

“Business debts. Gambling. Private loans. Bad investments.”

“How much?”

“Nearly four million dollars.”

I stared at her.

“Four million?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t I know?”

“Because he hid them.”

I remembered all the times Grant had told me not to worry about money.

All the times he had asked me to sign something quickly.

All the times he had said his business was doing better than ever.

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART…