Chapter 11 - THE HUNT
I had never seen Grant with a gun.
That didn’t mean he didn’t own one.
Detective Harmon told me not to go home.
He also told me Grant’s phone had stopped transmitting location data shortly after federal agents seized his primary device.
Apparently, he had a second phone.
Of course he did.
Maya immediately arranged security.
Two retired NYPD officers met us in the lobby.
“You stay between us,” one of them said.
I nodded.
My brain felt strange.
Too clear.
Too awake.
Like fear had sharpened everything.
At 2:12 p.m., Claire sent her files.
Photos.
Hospital records.
Screenshots.
Emails.
The voicemail.
Maya played it quietly.
Meredith’s voice filled the conference room.
Claire, you need to understand something. Grant has a future. You can either be part of resolving this quietly, or you can become the kind of woman nobody respectable wants to hire.
My stomach turned.
Then Grant’s recording.
His voice.
You think anybody’s going to believe you over me? My dad already handled the cops. You’re done.
Maya stopped the audio.
“That’s enough.”
I stared at the table.
“Send everything.”
“To Brooks?”
“To everyone who legally needs it.”
Maya nodded.
My phone buzzed.
A text.
Unknown number.
YOU ALWAYS WERE TOO CURIOUS.
I showed security.
One officer asked, “Could be Grant?”
“Yes.”
Another text.
YOU COULD HAVE HAD EVERYTHING.
Then another.
YOU CHOSE TO DESTROY IT.
Maya said, “Don’t respond.”
I wasn’t going to.
Then a photo arrived.
My apartment building.
Taken from across the street.
Five minutes earlier.
My stomach dropped.
The officer grabbed his radio.
“We’re moving.”
We left through a secure garage.
A black SUV took us downtown toward a hotel Maya had arranged under another name.
Halfway there, traffic stopped.
Horn.
Construction.
Gridlock.
The driver cursed.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another photo.
Our SUV.
Taken from behind.
“He’s following us.”
Security reacted instantly.
“Driver, move.”
“There’s nowhere to go.”
The officer looked through the rear window.
“Black motorcycle. Two cars back.”
My heart hammered.
The motorcycle moved between lanes.
Closer.
Closer.
The rider wore a dark helmet.
Maya grabbed my hand.
The officer drew his weapon but kept it low.
“Stay down.”
I ducked.
The motorcycle pulled alongside us.
The rider turned his head.
Then reached inside his jacket.
“Down!”
We dropped.
Something slammed against the SUV window.
I screamed.
The vehicle surged forward.
The driver jumped the curb, clipped a construction barrier, then cut down a side street.
Maya looked at the window.
Not a bullet.
A phone.
Taped to it.
The motorcycle had thrown a phone against our car.
Security retrieved it after we stopped in a police-controlled area.
One video was already playing.
Grant filled the screen.
No jacket.
Hair wild.
Eyes red.
“Elena,” he said.
I stared.
“I know you’re watching.”
Behind him was a room I recognized.
The Whitmore estate library.
He continued.
“You want the truth? Come get it.”
Maya whispered, “Absolutely not.”
Grant smiled into the camera.
Then stepped aside.
Someone was sitting in a chair behind him.
Hands tied.
Mouth covered.
Rosa.
The housekeeper who recorded the slap.
My blood went cold.
Grant leaned toward the camera.
May you like
“You have two hours.”
Then the video ended.
