Chapter 24 - Noah ReedNoah did not look like Grant.
That was the first surprise.
He looked like Hannah had imagined Gabriel might have looked before life became complicated.
Warm brown hair.
Hazel eyes.
An easy face.
Thirty-one years old.
He worked as an investigative accountant in Boston.
And when Grant called him, Noah hung up.
Twice.
The third call lasted six seconds.
“Stop calling me.”
Grant sat at the farmhouse kitchen table staring at his phone.
Hannah drank coffee across from him.
“How’s family bonding?”
“He hates me.”
“He doesn't know you.”
“He efficiently hates me.”
“That might be genetic.”
Grant looked offended.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Grace slept against Hannah’s shoulder.
Leo sat on the floor building a tower.
Grant tried again.
Hannah grabbed his phone.
“No.”
“What?”
“You called three times.”
“I’m persistent.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Historically effective.”
“Historically divorced.”
Grant stared at her.
“That was unnecessarily accurate.”
She smiled.
“Give him space.”
Grant hated space.
Space was where uncertainty lived.
Two days later, Noah arrived at the farmhouse.
No warning.
Grant opened the door.
The younger man stood there holding a leather folder.
They stared at each other.
Noah spoke first.
“You look like him.”
Grant swallowed.
“So did he.”
Noah’s expression hardened.
“You don't get to talk about my father like you knew him.”
“You’re right.”
That answer disarmed him slightly.
Hannah appeared.
“Come inside.”
Noah looked at her.
“You're Hannah.”
“Yes.”
“My father liked you.”
Grant blinked.
“What?”
Noah almost smiled.
“He followed public stories about your charity work. He said you were probably the first decent thing to happen to the Whitmore family in three generations.”
Hannah glanced at Grant.
“I like your brother.”
“He’s dead.”
“Still winning.”
Noah entered.
He did not want coffee.
He did not want food.
He wanted answers.
Grant gave them.
Every ugly one.
Italy.
Bellandi.
Financial crimes.
His cooperation.
His betrayal of Hannah.
His father’s deception.
No editing.
No reputation management.
When Grant finished, Noah stared at him.
“You tell everyone that?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
“Because your father spent his life being denied the truth. You won’t.”
Noah looked toward Leo.
“Dad wanted us to meet.”
“I know.”
“I refused.”
Grant frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Walter contacted me after Dad died.”
Grant’s face hardened.
“What did he want?”
Noah opened the leather folder.
“He wanted me to sign this.”
A confidentiality agreement.
In exchange:
Twenty million dollars.
Grant’s jaw tightened.
Hannah whispered:
“Walter tried to buy your silence.”
“Yes.”
“Did you take it?”
Noah smiled coldly.
“No.”
Grant almost felt proud.
Then Noah placed another document down.
“But somebody else did.”
A wire transfer.
Twenty million.
Recipient:
REBECCA COLLINS.
Grant stopped.
“My sister?”
Noah nodded.
“Three weeks after my father died.”
Hannah’s stomach dropped.
Grant stood.
“No.”
“Your father paid her.”
“For what?”
“That,” Noah said, “is what my father meant when he said I trusted a Whitmore.”
Grant called Rebecca.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Hannah noticed something.
Leo had stopped building.
He was holding Hannah’s phone.
“Mommy.”
“What, sweetheart?”
“Aunt Becca.”
Hannah took the phone.
A text had arrived.
From Rebecca.
Please don't let Grant come looking for me.
May you like
Then another.
Tell him I'm sorry.
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