Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT GRANT LET HER CHOOSE
Grant wanted Rebecca moved to a secure federal location.
So did Foster.
Rebecca refused until Audrey looked at her and said,
“You already disappeared once. I’m not burying you a second time.”
Rebecca went.
That was the difference Audrey kept thinking about.
A request.
A choice.
Not a decision made in another room.
Grant was changing.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But visibly.
Three days passed.
Julian Mercer was formally charged with fraud, identity theft, conspiracy and financial crimes while prosecutors negotiated over his cooperation.
Natalie gave a full statement.
Audrey’s studio was publicly identified as a victim, not a participant.
For the first time in weeks, one part of the crisis began moving toward resolution.
Arthur Hale remained missing.
Then the third cassette led them to him.
The location was the old Queens Public Library annex where Thomas had volunteered during college.
The “clock” from his photograph still hung above an unused reading room.
Inside its wooden casing, agents found a cassette and a key.
The cassette was more important.
Thomas described a warehouse near Red Hook.
Hale used it to store original ledgers because, in Thomas’s words, “Arthur trusts paper more than people.”
The key matched a storage lock.
Foster planned a federal search.
Audrey planned nothing.
She was eight weeks from her due date and finally exhausted.
That evening, she returned to the townhouse and found Grant cooking pasta.
Or attempting to.
She watched from the doorway.
“You’re burning garlic.”
He looked at the pan.
“I’m aware.”
“You weren’t thirty seconds ago.”
Grant turned off the heat.
Audrey almost smiled.
They had not been alone together since the truth about Charles.
Now the silence felt different.
Not hostile.
Unfinished.
Grant placed a plate in front of her.
“Eat something.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Would you like to rephrase the command?”
A tired smile crossed his face.
“Would you please eat something?”
“Better.”
They sat.
For several minutes, only forks touched plates.
Finally Audrey said,
“Why didn’t you come after me?”
Grant knew what she meant.
The first morning.
The studio.
“Because you left.”
“That usually causes husbands to go after their wives.”
“Maybe husbands in movies.”
She looked at him.
Grant set down his fork.
“You told me I had decided what you were allowed to know.”
His voice remained quiet.
“If I had shown up at the studio with security and demanded you come home, I would have been doing the same thing in another form.”
Audrey stared at him.
“I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“I sat in the car across the river for almost an hour.”
“You did?”
He nodded.
“Marcus eventually told me staring at Brooklyn was not a security strategy.”
Audrey laughed.
A real laugh.
The first one in days.
Grant’s face softened.
Then the laugh faded.
“I still don’t know if I can come home.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“And what do you want?”
Grant looked at her.
“You.”
The answer landed gently.
“But not if having you requires controlling you.”
Audrey’s throat tightened.
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“I’ve had several sleepless nights.”
She looked down.
Grant continued.
“I love you. I love our child. I want our marriage.”
He paused.
“But I have spent years thinking love gave me permission to decide what danger reached you.”
His eyes lowered.
“My father taught me that control was responsibility.”
Audrey thought of Charles.
Of Thomas.
Of all the men whose choices had shaped families decades later.
Grant looked at her again.
“I don’t want our son or daughter learning that from me.”
Audrey’s hand moved over her belly.
“You finally admit we don’t know if it’s a boy or girl.”
“I remain convinced boy.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Statistically, I have a respectable chance.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then the lights went out.
The entire townhouse went black.
Grant was standing before Audrey processed it.
“Stay here.”
She caught his wrist.
Grant stopped.
They looked at each other.
Audrey whispered,
“Ask.”
The lesson hit immediately.
Grant nodded.
“Will you stay here while I check the breaker?”
“Yes.”
He pulled a flashlight from a kitchen drawer.
Before he reached the hall, Marcus called.
“Grant, don’t open any doors.”
Grant’s expression changed.
“Why?”
“Power is down on the whole block, but our exterior cameras went offline thirty seconds before the outage.”
Grant moved beside Audrey.
“Where are your men?”
“Front car is responding. Rear man isn’t answering.”
Audrey’s pulse accelerated.
Grant dialed 911.
Then glass shattered upstairs.
He looked toward the ceiling.
Someone was inside.
Audrey grabbed his arm.
“Back exit.”
Grant nodded.
No argument.
They moved through the kitchen toward the rear corridor.
A shadow appeared outside the glass door.
Grant pulled Audrey behind the wall.
“Who is it?”
“Marcus!”
Grant opened the door.
Marcus rushed inside.
“Rear guard is alive. Someone hit him and took his jacket.”
Footsteps sounded overhead.
Marcus drew his weapon.
“Go.”
Grant took Audrey’s hand.
This time she chose to hold it.
They reached the alley.
A dark sedan waited.
Then a man stepped from behind it.
Arthur Hale.
Older than Audrey expected.
Calm.
Almost gentle.
He held no visible weapon.
“Mrs. Callaway.”
Grant moved in front of her.
Hale smiled.
“You do stand like your father.”
Grant’s voice became ice.
“Stay away from my wife.”
“Charles said something similar about Thomas.”
Audrey stepped slightly sideways so she could see him.
“What do you want?”
Hale looked amused.
“The last tape.”
“We don’t have it.”
“You will.”
“What’s on it?”
His smile disappeared.
“The only mistake I ever made.”
Sirens approached in the distance.
Hale glanced toward the street.
Then toward Audrey.
“Ask your aunt where the dollhouse is.”
Grant moved.
Hale raised a hand.
“No need.”
He stepped backward.
“I didn’t come to hurt her.”
“Then why break into my home?” Audrey demanded.
Hale’s gaze landed on her stomach.
“To see whether Charles Callaway’s son had finally learned that family is a weakness.”
Grant’s expression changed.
Hale smiled.
“Apparently he has.”
He turned.
Marcus shouted,
“Stop!”
Hale ran.
Agents and officers flooded the block moments later.
They did not catch him.
But Audrey barely noticed.
One sentence had stayed.
The dollhouse.
She called Rebecca.
Her aunt answered on the second ring.
“Audrey?”
“Where is Dad’s dollhouse?”
Silence.
Then Rebecca whispered,
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“I know where he hid it.”
“Where?”
Rebecca’s answer stunned Audrey.
“At Natalie’s apartment.”
Natalie’s childhood dollhouse had been moved from their mother’s attic into Natalie’s home three years earlier.
The same apartment Julian had searched.
The same apartment Natalie had fled.
Grant stared at Audrey.
“If Hale knows—”
Natalie was alone there.
Audrey dialed her sister.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
Then a text arrived from Natalie’s number.
A photograph.
Natalie sat in her apartment living room.
May you like
Arthur Hale stood behind her.
And on the coffee table between them rested the old wooden dollhouse.
