Chapter 4 - WHAT HER FATHER KNEW
Audrey had spent seventeen years believing her father died because rain made a highway dangerous.
By midnight, she was no longer sure of anything.
Grant wanted her moved somewhere secure.
This time, he did not order it.
“Tell me where you want to go,” he said.
Audrey appreciated that more than she wanted to admit.
“My studio.”
“Someone broke into it tonight.”
“I know.”
“It’s compromised.”
“I know that too.”
Grant waited.
Audrey exhaled.
“The townhouse.”
Grant owned a narrow townhouse in Brooklyn Heights through a holding company almost nobody connected to him. Audrey had used it twice when their main residence was being renovated.
Grant nodded.
“No guards inside unless you ask. Marcus outside.”
“One car.”
“Two.”
“Grant.”
“One at the front, one at the rear. You will not see them unless you need them.”
Audrey considered.
“Fine.”
He did not smile.
But tension left his shoulders.
At 1:18 a.m., Audrey, Natalie and Grant sat around the townhouse dining table while Marcus connected Natalie’s flash drive to an isolated laptop.
The ledger scans were old.
Handwritten.
Audrey recognized her mother’s neat notes in the margins.
That shocked her almost as much as the names.
“My mother had this.”
Natalie nodded.
Their mother, Evelyn Halstead, had spent twenty-eight years teaching art history at a private college.
Or so her daughters had believed.
Page after page suggested she had also been documenting financial relationships between Charles Callaway and Richard Mercer, Julian’s father.
Grant read without speaking.
Audrey watched him.
His face was composed, but every few pages his jaw tightened.
“What?” she asked.
Grant pointed.
A payment.
$175,000.
Beside it were initials.
C.C.
R.M.
And A.H.
Audrey leaned closer.
“Who’s A.H.?”
Grant’s expression changed.
“I don’t know.”
Marcus did.
His silence gave him away.
Grant looked at him.
“Say it.”
Marcus hesitated.
“Arthur Hale.”
Audrey frowned.
“Who?”
Grant leaned back slowly.
“My father’s attorney.”
“Was?”
“He disappeared thirteen years ago.”
Audrey stared.
“Disappeared?”
“Left his wife. Closed his office. No verified financial activity after that.”
“And nobody found that suspicious?”
“My father told everyone Hale stole money from him and ran.”
“Did he?”
“I was twenty-nine. I believed what I was told.”
Audrey almost laughed at the symmetry.
All of them had spent their lives living inside information powerful men chose to provide.
Natalie scrolled farther.
Then she stopped.
“Here.”
A note in Evelyn’s handwriting.
Thomas has the original.
Audrey leaned forward.
“My father’s name was Thomas.”
Grant looked at her.
“Original what?”
Nobody answered.
Then Audrey noticed something at the bottom of the scan.
A sketch.
Three small circles inside a rectangle.
She knew that mark.
“I’ve seen this.”
Grant stood.
“Where?”
Audrey’s mind raced.
Old childhood memories.
Her father in his basement workshop.
Her mother complaining that he kept useless frames.
A painting of Lake Champlain that had hung above the fireplace.
Then Audrey remembered.
“The landscape.”
Natalie frowned.
“What landscape?”
“The blue one Dad hated.”
Audrey stood too quickly and grabbed the table.
Grant immediately reached for her elbow, then stopped himself.
She noticed.
After a second, Audrey placed her hand in his.
Not forgiveness.
Balance.
But Grant understood the distinction.
“The painting went to storage after Mom died,” Audrey said.
“What storage?” Marcus asked.
“My studio.”
Everyone looked at her.
Audrey closed her eyes.
“No.”
The archival break-in.
The thief had taken paperwork.
Maybe he had been looking for something else.
Grant picked up his coat.
“We go now.”
Audrey did not argue.
Twenty minutes later, the studio was surrounded by police.
The old landscape was stored in a rolling rack on the lowest level.
Audrey found it beneath a protective cover.
A cheap painting by an unknown artist.
Blue lake.
Gray mountains.
White farmhouse.
Grant stared.
“This?”
“My father bought it at an estate sale before I was born.”
Audrey ran her fingers carefully along the back.
Three circles had been drawn on the upper wooden stretcher bar.
Her pulse jumped.
“This is it.”
Grant watched as she examined the frame.
She had repaired thousands of old objects.
She knew how people hid things inside them.
With delicate tools, Audrey loosened the backing.
Behind the lining paper was a narrow cavity.
Inside rested a brown envelope.
Nobody spoke.
Audrey removed it.
Her father’s handwriting appeared across the front.
For Evelyn. If anything happens to me, give this to the girls when they are old enough to understand.
Natalie covered her mouth.
Audrey could not move.
Grant stepped back.
This belonged to them.
Audrey opened the envelope.
Inside were photocopies of contracts, photographs and one handwritten letter.
She unfolded it.
Evie,
If you are reading this, I waited too long.
Audrey swallowed.
Her father wrote that he had worked as a financial auditor for several construction partnerships tied to Charles Callaway.
He discovered bribery.
Fraud.
Money laundering.
Then something worse.
Richard Mercer and Charles Callaway had arranged deliberate building code failures to force owners into selling valuable properties cheaply.
Thomas collected records.
He intended to take them to federal investigators.
But someone discovered him.
The final paragraph made Audrey sit down.
Charles wants out. I believe him. He says Richard has become dangerous and is using Arthur Hale to clean everything. Charles gave me copies of the accounts because he wants leverage. I don’t trust him, but I trust Richard less.
Audrey looked at Grant.
“My father was working with yours.”
“Against Mercer,” Grant said.
“At the end.”
“Apparently.”
Natalie found another photograph.
Three men stood outside a warehouse.
Thomas Halstead.
Charles Callaway.
And Arthur Hale.
On the back was a date.
Two days before Thomas died.
Audrey felt tears fill her eyes.
“Why didn’t Mom show us?”
Natalie whispered.
“Maybe she was scared.”
Grant studied the documents.
“There’s nothing here proving murder.”
“No.”
“But enough to prove motive.”
Audrey folded the letter carefully.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Grant looked at the screen.
“Don’t answer.”
Audrey gave him a look.
He corrected himself.
“Please don’t answer.”
She answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice spoke.
Smooth.
Familiar.
Julian Mercer.
“Audrey.”
Grant reached for his phone, signaling Marcus to trace the call.
Audrey kept her voice calm.
“What do you want?”
“The same thing everybody wants. For the past to stay buried.”
“My father died because of your family?”
Julian laughed softly.
“You’re asking questions that ruined him too.”
Grant’s expression became murderous.
Audrey continued.
“You broke into my studio.”
“Technically, someone else did.”
“You forged my professional documents.”
“Allegedly.”
“You threatened my sister.”
Silence.
Then Julian said,
“Grant has taught you his tone.”
“No. I had one before I met him.”
That silenced Julian longer.
Finally:
“You found the painting.”
Nobody moved.
Audrey felt Grant’s eyes on her.
Julian knew.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your mother was clever. Your father was brave.”
His voice hardened.
“Both qualities become dangerous when confused with invincibility.”
Grant took the phone from Audrey’s hand.
“You speak to my wife again and the next conversation you have will be through your attorney.”
Julian chuckled.
“There he is.”
Grant’s eyes became cold.
“You’re done.”
“No, Grant.”
Julian’s voice lost its amusement.
“You are.”
The line disconnected.
Marcus looked up from his phone.
“Couldn’t trace it.”
Grant handed Audrey her phone.
Then Marcus received another call.
His face changed.
“What?”
He listened.
“Where?”
Grant stepped closer.
Marcus lowered the phone.
“Police went to Julian’s penthouse.”
“And?”
“Empty.”
Natalie whispered,
“He ran?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
He looked toward Audrey.
“His passport is still there. His car is downstairs.”
Grant understood first.
Someone else had entered the game.
“What did they find?” Audrey asked.
Marcus hesitated.
“A message written across Julian’s study wall.”
“Blood?”
“No. Red paint.”
Audrey’s chest tightened.
“What did it say?”
May you like
Marcus looked directly at Grant.
“The sons always pay their fathers’ debts.”
