Chapter 9 - The Man My Father Trusted
Samuel Grant had been Gabriel’s attorney for thirty-two years.
He had attended Elena’s funeral.
He had helped finance private investigators searching for me.
He had comforted Gabriel.
And according to Rachel’s memory, he might have driven the car used to make me disappear.
Gabriel did not want to believe it.
Neither did Thomas.
But evidence does not care what we want.
Old toll records placed Samuel’s vehicle near Saint Anne’s.
A recovered expense claim placed him away from the conference he claimed to be attending.
Then investigators found a payment from Victor.
Samuel eventually confessed.
He had driven Celeste.
He claimed he did not know a child was involved until halfway through the trip.
“Then why didn’t you stop?” Gabriel demanded.
Samuel looked twenty years older.
“Victor threatened my family.”
“So you sacrificed mine?”
Samuel cried.
Gabriel did not.
Not until later.
That night, he sat in my kitchen.
“I trusted him.”
“I know.”
“How do you know who’s real after something like this?”
I understood that question better than anyone.
“You watch what people do when telling the truth costs them something.”
Gabriel looked at me.
“Where did you learn that?”
“From surviving Adrian.”
The investigation into Samuel closed another gap in my past.
But public attention created new problems.
People appeared claiming to be childhood witnesses.
Relatives.
Friends.
Some wanted money.
Some wanted publicity.
One woman claimed she had raised me secretly for two years.
She had never met me.
I learned quickly that wealth attracts invented memories.
So I returned to the one thing I trusted.
Documents.
Records.
Evidence.
I formally joined Halcyon—not as Gabriel’s daughter, but as director of forensic integrity.
The board objected.
I expected that.
One director said:
“This looks like nepotism.”
I answered:
“Then evaluate my qualifications without my surname.”
They did.
My work spoke for itself.
I got the position.
Not because Gabriel gave it to me.
Because the independent directors voted.
On my first morning, I walked through the lobby where Adrian once dreamed of becoming an executive.
People stared.
I ignored them.
My office was modest.
I chose it deliberately.
Thomas placed a folder on my desk.
“Welcome to Halcyon.”
“What’s this?”
“Your first case.”
I opened it.
Anonymous complaint.
Executive expense manipulation.
I smiled.
“Trying to scare me away?”
“No.”
Thomas smiled.
“I’m trying to make sure you don’t get bored.”
Then I noticed the name connected to the complaint.
The executive was someone who had attended Adrian’s party.
Someone who had watched him slap me.
Someone who later told investigators he had “seen nothing clearly.”
His name was Charles Benton.
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And the records suggested he had been helping Adrian long before that night.
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