Chapter 11 - THE CHILD HE BUILT
Grant first met Gideon Voss when he was sixteen.
He remembered the car.
Black Mercedes.
Cream-colored leather.
A man in a dark suit waiting outside his high school after baseball practice.
“Grant Calloway?”
“Yeah?”
“Friend of your father’s.”
Grant should have walked away.
Instead, he got in.
Gideon bought him dinner.
Asked about baseball.
Asked about girls.
Asked about Evelyn.
“She keeps you on a short leash?”
Grant laughed.
“You know my mom?”
“A long time.”
“She hates everybody.”
“No.”
Gideon smiled.
“She hates losing control.”
That was the first seed.
After that came birthday money.
College introductions.
An internship.
A business contact when Grant needed one.
Gideon never asked for anything at first.
That was how he did it.
He waited until generosity felt normal.
Then, when Thomas died, Gideon called Grant.
“Your father left unfinished business.”
Grant had been thirty.
Angry.
Grieving.
Deep in debt.
He listened.
And for the next decade, Gideon slowly taught him one lesson.
Evelyn was the enemy.
She controlled the property.
The money.
The family.
Even Maisie.
“She thinks you’re weak,” Gideon once told him.
Grant never forgot it.
Now Morales sat across from Gideon Voss in a conference room on the thirty-sixth floor of Voss Capital.
He had agreed to an interview voluntarily.
Of course he had.
Men like Gideon believed cooperation was another room they could control.
At fifty-nine, he still looked expensive.
Silver hair.
Perfect suit.
Watch worth more than Morales’s car.
“I’m told you have questions about Grant Calloway.”
“And Vanessa.”
“His wife?”
“Natalie Mercer.”
For the first time, Gideon’s face changed.
Barely.
But Morales saw it.
“I don’t know that name.”
“Miriam Mercer’s daughter.”
Gideon leaned back.
“I wasn’t aware she had one.”
“You’re lying.”
His attorney moved.
Gideon lifted a hand.
“It’s fine.”
Morales placed a photograph on the table.
Young Miriam.
Then another.
Vanessa.
Gideon looked at both.
A long time.
“No.”
Morales watched him.
“You see it.”
“I see two dark-haired women.”
“She believes you’re her father.”
Gideon’s mouth hardened.
“Miriam was unstable.”
“So you slept with her?”
His attorney interrupted.
“We’re not discussing—”
“Yes,” Gideon said.
The attorney stopped.
Gideon kept looking at Vanessa’s photograph.
“Yes. Briefly.”
“Miriam was pregnant.”
“She told me she lost it.”
“You never checked?”
“I had no reason.”
Morales leaned forward.
“She was afraid you would take the child.”
Gideon finally looked at her.
“Detective, I did not kill Miriam Mercer.”
“I didn’t ask if you did.”
Silence.
Morales stood.
“We’ll be in touch.”
As she reached the door, Gideon spoke.
“Where is Vanessa now?”
Morales turned.
“Why?”
“If she believes I’m her father, I’d like to speak to her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve spent almost twenty years manipulating the Calloway family.”
Gideon smiled faintly.
“You overestimate me.”
“No.”
Morales opened the door.
“I think everyone else underestimated you.”
That evening, Vanessa was moved to a secure location pending formal charges.
At 9:14 p.m., the transport van stopped at a red light.
At 9:15, a pickup truck slammed into the rear.
Two masked men came out.
One smashed the driver’s window.
The other opened the side door.
Vanessa kicked him in the face.
He grabbed her ankle.
She screamed.
The escorting officer fired.
The attacker dropped.
Vanessa crawled across the van floor.
Outside, tires spun.
The pickup escaped.
When Morales arrived, Vanessa was sitting on the curb, barefoot, wrapped in a police jacket.
“You still think Gideon wants to talk?” Vanessa asked.
Morales crouched in front of her.
“One attacker survived.”
“Who is he?”
“We’re finding out.”
Vanessa looked at the blood on the pavement.
“No.”
“What?”
“He won’t tell you anything.”
Morales’s phone rang.
Ruiz.
She answered.
“Yeah?”
“Detective, we have a problem.”
May you like
“What?”
“Maisie’s gone.”
