Chapter 10 - Eleven Minutes
Eleven minutes.
That was how close I came to seeing my wife alive again.
The federal team moved immediately.
Vehicles left the building.
Phones rang.
Officers shouted instructions.
I stood in the hallway, useless.
Sloan told me to wait.
I couldn't.
I paced until my legs ached.
I called Elena.
She answered immediately.
"Any news?"
"They found Corinne."
Silence.
"Alive?"
"Eleven minutes ago."
Elena began crying.
I closed my eyes.
"Please tell Owen his father loves him."
She said nothing.
Then she whispered, "He needs his mother."
"I know."
"And Grant?"
"Yes?"
"If she survives this, don't confuse gratitude with forgiveness."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
For the first time, I understood that finding Corinne would not mean getting my marriage back.
I had spent years treating forgiveness as something she owed me.
A natural consequence of an apology.
A bouquet.
A promise.
Now I understood that she might never forgive me.
And I would still have to help save her.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Finally, Sloan returned.
Her face told me something was wrong.
"What happened?"
"The property was empty."
I felt my stomach drop.
"No."
"They moved her."
"When?"
"Shortly before our team arrived."
"How?"
"We believe someone warned them."
I stared.
"Someone inside the investigation?"
"We're examining that possibility."
I leaned against the wall.
"Was she hurt?"
Sloan hesitated.
"The video showed her restrained."
I closed my eyes.
"Did she speak?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
Sloan looked uncomfortable.
"Grant—"
"Tell me."
She took a breath.
"She said she wanted to speak to Richard Vale."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"We don't know."
"What else?"
"She said she had something he wanted."
"The records?"
"Possibly."
I shook my head.
"She doesn't have the originals."
"How do you know?"
"Her letter said she'd given them to someone else."
Sloan studied me.
"Did she identify that person?"
"No."
Then I remembered.
The attorney.
Elena had mentioned an attorney.
I told Sloan.
She immediately called Mercer.
Within twenty minutes, they identified the lawyer.
Daniel Whitcomb.
A Nashville attorney specializing in trust litigation.
He had represented Corinne's grandfather.
He had also represented my mother.
That detail struck me.
"My mother?"
Sloan nodded.
"Apparently."
I stared at the file.
"Why would Corinne go to my mother's attorney?"
"Perhaps because he already understood the property issues."
Something stirred in my memory.
My mother had once told me that if anything happened to her, I should speak to Daniel Whitcomb.
I had forgotten.
After her funeral, my father told me the estate was settled.
I never contacted the attorney.
Sloan arranged a meeting.
Whitcomb arrived just after midnight.
He was seventy-one, with white hair and a weathered face.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Grant Keaton."
"Mr. Whitcomb."
"You look like your mother."
I swallowed.
"Did you know Corinne?"
"Very well."
"Did she give you the records?"
He looked toward Sloan.
"Before I answer, I need confirmation that appropriate protective arrangements are in place."
Sloan nodded.
"We can discuss that."
Whitcomb sat down.
Then he looked at me.
"Grant, your mother came to me fourteen years ago."
I stared.
"Why?"
"She believed your father and Richard Vale were stealing from investors."
My stomach tightened.
"Did she have proof?"
"Some."
"What happened?"
"She wanted to report them."
I felt cold.
"Then she died."
Whitcomb nodded.
"Three months later."
I stared at him.
"Are you saying my father killed her?"
"No."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying your mother's death prevented her from testifying."
The room went silent.
Whitcomb opened his briefcase.
He removed a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
I recognized the handwriting.
My mother's.
"For Grant, when he's ready to hear the truth."
I couldn't breathe.
Whitcomb placed it in front of me.
"She asked me to give you this if the investigation ever reopened."
I stared at the envelope.
Fourteen years.
My mother had left me a letter fourteen years ago.
And I had never known.
I opened it.
Inside was a single page.
My darling Grant,
If you're reading this, I may not have had the chance to explain why I was so frightened.
Your father has made terrible choices.
I tried to stop him.
But the person I'm most afraid of isn't your father.
I turned the page.
There was no second page.
Only a name written beneath the final sentence.
Richard Vale.
And under it, five words.
He knows what happened to Emily.
I looked up.
"Who is Emily?"
Whitcomb's face went pale.
He stared at the letter.
Then he whispered, "Your sister."
I stopped breathing.
"I don't have a sister."
May you like
Whitcomb closed his eyes.
"That's what your father wanted you to believe."
