Chapter 8 - The Missing Forty-Three Million Dollars
Rebecca Whitmore agreed to meet us at Caroline's office.
She arrived wearing black trousers, a cream cardigan, and no makeup.
She looked nothing like Paige.
Nothing like the kind of woman I imagined Grant choosing.
And that realization embarrassed me.
For years, I had subconsciously believed that his cruelty was connected to something lacking in me.
Now I was beginning to understand that women were not the variable.
Grant was.
Rebecca was thirty-nine.
She had married him eight years earlier, when he worked in corporate finance.
Their marriage lasted eleven months.
"He was wonderful at first," she said.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I knew the rest of the story.
"He remembered everything. My coffee order. My mother's birthday. My favorite childhood movie. He made me feel like I was the only woman in the world."
Then came the restrictions.
The criticism.
The accusations.
The apologies.
Rebecca described discovering unauthorized credit accounts opened using her personal information.
When she confronted Grant, he insisted she was imagining things.
He contacted her employer.
He told friends she had become unstable.
He threatened to reveal intimate details of their marriage if she challenged him publicly.
"How did you get away?" I asked.
Rebecca stared into her tea.
"My sister came to visit unexpectedly. She noticed I had stopped looking people in the eye."
I understood that immediately.
"She offered me a place to stay. I packed one suitcase while Grant was at work."
"Did you report him?"
"Some of the financial misconduct, yes. But he had documents that appeared to support his explanations. We eventually reached a settlement."
"Why didn't I know about you?"
"He made sure his past stayed private. I reverted to my maiden name after the divorce."
Caroline leaned forward.
"You mentioned information about Richard Bennett."
Rebecca nodded.
"After our divorce, I worked for a financial compliance firm. Several years later, I saw Grant's name connected to Bennett Biomedical."
She opened a folder.
"I started looking because I was worried he'd found another woman with assets he could control."
My throat tightened.
"Me."
"Yes."
Rebecca handed Caroline several bank records.
"The transactions I found weren't limited to consulting payments. There was a network of companies passing funds between one another."
Caroline studied the pages.
"Meridian Logistics?"
Rebecca nodded.
"One of several."
"How did you obtain these?"
"Through records that were publicly available at the time and materials I retained from an earlier professional review. My attorney can explain the sources."
She pointed to a chart.
Bennett Biomedical sat at the top.
Below it were six subsidiary and vendor entities.
Vale Strategic Holdings appeared in the middle.
Meridian Logistics was connected to three more companies.
One ultimately led to an investment account associated with Thomas Ellery.
The estimated unauthorized exposure was enormous.
Forty-three million dollars.
My father's number.
The one underlined in his notebook.
I stared at the chart.
"Did Grant take all of it?"
"That's what investigators will need to determine," Rebecca said. "Some transfers may have been legitimate. Others require careful tracing."
Caroline turned a page.
Then stopped.
"Rebecca, where did you find this transaction?"
"In an archived disclosure."
Caroline enlarged it.
A transfer for $2.6 million had been initiated two days before my father's death.
Its description read:
PROJECT HORIZON — FINAL TRANSITION.
"What's Project Horizon?" I asked.
Rebecca looked uncomfortable.
"I don't know."
Margaret, who had remained silent, suddenly stood.
Her teacup rattled.
"Richard mentioned that name."
I turned toward her.
"When?"
"At dinner. About a month before he died."
"What did he say?"
Margaret closed her eyes.
"He said Horizon was the reason he couldn't retire."
Caroline pulled out her notebook.
"Was it a product?"
"Possibly. Something involving rehabilitation technology."
I remembered my father's private laboratory.
After my mother died from complications following a stroke, he devoted much of the company's research budget to developing more accessible rehabilitation devices.
He believed patients shouldn't need extraordinary wealth to regain basic independence.
"Was Horizon one of Dad's research programs?" I asked.
Margaret nodded slowly.
"I think so."
Rebecca looked at me.
"Claire, your father's financial legacy might be only part of what Grant wanted."
That night, I searched through old photographs on my laptop.
I found Dad beside engineers, physicians, patients, and prototype devices.
Then I discovered an image from a research presentation five years earlier.
A banner behind him read:
PROJECT HORIZON: NEXT-GENERATION ASSISTIVE REHABILITATION SYSTEMS.
Beside Dad stood Thomas Ellery.
And in the far corner of the photograph, half-hidden behind a display, was Grant Whitmore.
He had been watching my father's project long before he began dating me.
I enlarged the image.
There was another man beside Grant.
Tall.
Gray-haired.
Wearing a dark blue suit.
I didn't recognize him.
But Margaret did.
When I sent her the photograph, she called immediately.
"Claire, where did you find this?"
"Why?"
"That man beside Grant."
"Who is he?"
Margaret's voice became quiet.
"His name is Charles Voss."
"And?"
"He's the investor your father refused to work with."
I stared at the screen.
"What did he want?"
"The Horizon patents."
"Did Dad sell them?"
"No."
Margaret paused.
"He told Charles Voss that some things weren't for sale."
Five minutes later, Caroline called.
A formal notification had arrived from a private investment company.
It claimed ownership of intellectual-property rights associated with Project Horizon.
The claim relied on documents allegedly signed by Richard Bennett shortly before his death.
And the company's principal shareholder was Charles Voss.
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For the first time, I understood that Grant might have been stealing more than money.
He had been helping someone steal the last invention my father ever created.
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