Chapter 9 - The Truth Beneath the Funeral
My father's funeral had been a masterpiece of appearances.
Hundreds of guests.
A polished mahogany coffin.
White flowers.
A choir.
A senator delivering a speech about integrity and public service.
Richard Vale stood beside me throughout the ceremony.
He placed a hand on my shoulder when the minister spoke.
He told me my father had been proud of me.
He even paid for the reception.
Now I wondered whether he had been celebrating.
Agent Sloan recovered the records from Tessa's storage locker that afternoon.
Inside were copies of bank transfers, corporate agreements, and encrypted communications.
There was also a handwritten ledger.
My father's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
He had always written numbers with an unusual slant.
Sloan placed the ledger in front of me.
"Do you recognize this?"
"Yes."
"Whose handwriting?"
"My father's."
She turned to a marked page.
Several entries listed payments to Westbridge Holdings.
Others referenced properties owned by Corinne's family.
Then I saw a name.
MARGARET KEATON.
My mother.
She had died fourteen years earlier.
I pointed at the entry.
"Why is my mother's name here?"
Sloan looked at the page.
"That's one of the things we hoped you could explain."
Beside her name was a payment.
$750,000.
The date was three months before her death.
I felt a chill.
"My mother didn't work for the company."
"Did she own property?"
"Some inherited land."
"Where?"
"Outside Murfreesboro."
Sloan made a note.
"Did she ever discuss financial disagreements with your father?"
I thought back.
My parents had argued constantly during the last year of her life.
My father called her unreasonable.
My mother called him reckless.
I had sided with him.
Of course I had.
Then I remembered something.
A conversation in the kitchen.
My mother standing beside the sink, crying.
She had told me she was worried about the company.
I had been twenty-eight.
Already working for my father.
I had told her she didn't understand business.
She had looked at me with such sadness that I remembered it even now.
"Grant," she'd said, "being loyal to your father doesn't mean you have to become him."
I had walked away.
Sloan watched my expression.
"What is it?"
I swallowed.
"My mother knew something."
"About the fraud?"
"Maybe."
"Did she tell you?"
"I wouldn't listen."
The confession came out before I could stop it.
Sloan closed the ledger.
"Mr. Keaton, we believe your father began cooperating with Leonard Pike several months before his supposed death."
"Why?"
"Because he discovered Richard had been diverting money without his knowledge."
I stared.
"So my father was innocent?"
Sloan shook her head.
"No."
The answer was immediate.
"He appears to have helped establish the scheme."
I looked down.
"But he later tried to stop it."
"Possibly."
"Why?"
"We don't know."
I thought about Corinne.
About Owen.
About the photograph of my father standing beside my pregnant wife.
Then I understood.
"He found out Richard was using Corinne's property."
Sloan studied me.
"That may have been part of it."
"My father didn't like Corinne."
"People can change."
I almost laughed.
My father?
Change?
Then I remembered his face in the video.
Bruised.
Frightened.
Begging me to save my wife.
Maybe fear had finally taught him something power never could.
That evening, Mercer arrived with news.
"We found Caleb Rourke."
I stood.
"Where?"
"His vehicle was abandoned near a warehouse in Smyrna."
"Was he inside?"
"No."
"Any sign of Corinne?"
"Not yet."
I sat down.
Mercer continued.
"But we found something else."
He handed me a photograph.
A silver necklace.
A small oval pendant.
I recognized it instantly.
Corinne's grandmother had given it to her.
She wore it every day.
Even in the hospital when Owen was born.
"Where was this?"
"On the warehouse floor."
My throat tightened.
"Was there blood?"
Mercer hesitated.
"Some."
I closed my eyes.
"Was it hers?"
"We're testing it."
I pressed the photograph against the table.
"Please find her."
My voice broke.
"Please."
Mercer sat across from me.
"Grant, I need you to understand something."
I looked up.
"We're getting closer."
"Then why does it feel like we're losing her?"
"Because whoever took her is running out of options."
He paused.
"And desperate people make dangerous mistakes."
At that moment, his phone rang.
He listened.
Then stood.
"What happened?" I asked.
Mercer looked at Sloan.
"We have a location."
"Corinne?"
"Possibly."
"Where?"
"A property owned by a shell company connected to Vale Capital."
I jumped up.
"I'm coming."
"No."
"Detective—"
"No."
Sloan stepped toward me.
"Grant, stay here."
I looked from one to the other.
Then Mercer said something that stopped me.
"We found a live video feed from the property."
My heart hammered.
"Was Corinne on it?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
I grabbed the table.
"Is she alive?"
"She was alive when the footage was recorded."
"When?"
May you like
Mercer looked at his watch.
"Eleven minutes ago."
