Chapter 3 - The Widow Grant Left Behind
Claire did not sleep.
At 4:11 a.m., she was still sitting at her kitchen island with a cup of untouched coffee while Adrian stood by the windows speaking quietly into his phone.
Two of his men remained outside.
Claire had protested.
Adrian ignored her.
Normally that would have infuriated her.
Tonight she let it go.
Grant was alive.
The sentence continued circling in her mind, refusing to become real.
He had stood near her house.
He had entered it.
After twelve months of allowing her to believe he was dead, Grant had walked through the rooms where she had grieved him.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Claire asked.
Adrian ended his call.
“Grant.”
“That part I understand.”
“I want to know why he came back.”
“Maybe because you found him.”
“I found him three months ago.”
Claire looked up.
“You've known for three months?”
“I suspected longer.”
“And you waited until tonight to tell me?”
“Yes.”
She stood.
Adrian watched her approach.
Claire slapped him.
The sound cracked through the kitchen.
One of the men outside glanced toward the window.
Adrian didn't move.
Claire's hand stung.
“You let me mourn him.”
“I needed confirmation.”
“For three months?”
“I needed to know whether you were involved.”
Her expression changed.
“You thought I helped him?”
“I didn't know you.”
“But you investigated me.”
“Yes.”
“My bank accounts?”
“Yes.”
“My firm?”
“Yes.”
“My phone?”
Adrian hesitated.
Claire laughed without humor.
“Of course.”
“I stopped once I knew you weren't part of it.”
“How generous.”
“You're alive because I was careful.”
“And your brother?”
The question landed.
Adrian looked away.
Claire immediately regretted it.
Not because he didn't deserve anger.
Because grief recognized grief.
Even complicated grief.
“What was his name?” she asked.
“Michael.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Was he involved in your business?”
Adrian paused.
“Some of it.”
Claire understood the distinction.
“How did Grant use him?”
“Michael was driving back from one of our properties near Rockford. Grant arranged a collision, switched vehicles, and made sure the identification inside the burned sedan pointed toward him.”
Claire went pale.
“You're saying Grant planned the accident.”
“Yes.”
“And your brother—”
“Was never supposed to get home.”
The brutal simplicity hurt.
Claire sat again.
“Why?”
“Michael found something.”
“What?”
Adrian looked toward the laptop displaying Warehouse 17.
“That is what I need you to help me discover.”
Claire's eyes narrowed.
“So this isn't about protecting me.”
“It can be two things.”
“You need my blueprints.”
“Yes.”
“You need the key.”
“Yes.”
“And because Grant knows that, you need me.”
“Yes.”
At least he was honest.
She almost respected him for it.
Almost.
Claire picked up the brass key.
“Then we go to Warehouse 17.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“Grant knows you're connected to the building now. He may be waiting.”
“And your solution is what? Lock me in my house?”
“For tonight.”
“It's morning.”
“You haven't slept.”
“Neither have you.”
“I didn't spend the past year discovering my husband was alive.”
Claire stood again.
“Exactly.”
She walked toward the hall.
“Where are you going?”
“To shower.”
“For what?”
“To work.”
Adrian stared.
“Your house was broken into six hours ago.”
“My clients don't stop existing because my dead husband came back.”
“Claire.”
She turned.
Something in her expression stopped him.
“For a year, everything I did was about Grant. His funeral. His mother. His accounts. His belongings. His debts. His memory.” Her voice tightened. “He already stole one year from me. He doesn't get today.”
Adrian studied her for several seconds.
“Fine.”
“What?”
“Go to work.”
“I don't need permission.”
“I know.”
She started upstairs.
He added, “I'm coming with you.”
Claire stopped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My architecture firm has three employees and one receptionist. You walking in with bodyguards will create questions.”
“No bodyguards inside.”
“Still no.”
“Then I'll sit across the street.”
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
She almost smiled.
That annoyed her more than anything.
Two hours later Claire entered Bennett Studio carrying coffee and pretending her entire life had not changed overnight.
Her office occupied the third floor of a renovated brick building in River North.
She had designed the space herself.
Exposed beams.
White walls.
Long drafting tables.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Before Grant's death, she had considered closing.
Afterward, work became survival.
Her assistant, Jenna Morales, looked up.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Anniversary dinner go badly?”
Claire stopped.
Jenna immediately softened.
“Sorry.”
“No, it's fine.”
It wasn't.
Claire looked through the window.
Across the street sat a black SUV.
Adrian.
“Do we still have the original Lakefront Industrial archive?” Claire asked.
Jenna frowned.
“The warehouse project?”
“Yes.”
“Storage room, probably. Why?”
“Client follow-up.”
“After eighteen months?”
“Apparently.”
Jenna disappeared toward the rear.
Claire entered her office.
She shut the door.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her heartbeat jumped.
A message appeared.
YOU ALWAYS WERE CURIOUS.
Claire stared.
Another arrived.
THAT WAS ONE OF THE THINGS I LOVED ABOUT YOU.
Her blood ran cold.
Grant.
Claire typed nothing.
A photograph appeared.
Taken that morning.
Claire entering her office.
He was watching.
Her eyes snapped toward the street.
Across the road Adrian's SUV remained.
She called him.
He answered immediately.
“Grant contacted me.”
“Don't reply.”
“He sent a picture.”
“What picture?”
“Me walking into work.”
Silence.
Then Adrian said, “Stay inside.”
“Where is he?”
“We'll find him.”
Another message.
ADRIAN CROSS WILL GET YOU KILLED.
Then:
HE HASN'T TOLD YOU WHAT HIS FAMILY DID.
Claire read it aloud.
Adrian went quiet.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing useful.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I'll explain later.”
“You keep saying you want me to trust you while refusing to tell me things.”
“I never asked you to trust me.”
“No. You just keep showing up every time I'm in danger.”
A pause.
“Claire, move away from the windows.”
Something in his tone made her obey.
Seconds later Adrian entered the studio.
No bodyguards.
Just him.
Employees stared.
Jenna's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.
Claire pulled Adrian into her office.
“You said you would stay outside.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You don't get to—”
“Grant has a clear line of sight into this office.”
Adrian closed the blinds.
Claire lowered her voice.
“What did your family do?”
His jaw tightened.
“Not here.”
“Now.”
Adrian studied her.
“My father owned Warehouse 17 before me.”
“So?”
“So Grant audited an insurance claim connected to it seven years ago.”
Claire frowned.
“That was before I designed the renovation.”
“Yes.”
“What claim?”
“A fire.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Adrian's gaze hardened.
“Three people died.”
Claire went still.
“My father buried evidence suggesting the fire was caused by illegal electrical work.”
Her stomach turned.
“And Grant found it.”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“What Grant always did.”
Adrian's voice became colder.
“He realized information was worth more than truth.”
Claire understood.
“He blackmailed your family.”
“For years.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
She stared.
“Grant had millions?”
“Not anymore.”
“Where did it go?”
“That’s the problem.”
A knock interrupted them.
Jenna entered carrying an old storage tube.
“Found the warehouse originals.”
Claire took it.
“Thanks.”
Jenna looked at Adrian.
Then Claire.
Then wisely left.
Claire spread the original blueprint across her desk.
She compared it with the digital version Grant had altered.
Adrian leaned beside her.
Claire traced the lower corridor.
“There.”
A tiny notation appeared near the hidden room.
Three letters.
M.C.R.
Adrian's expression changed.
“What?”
Claire pointed.
“Does that mean something?”
He stared at the letters.
“My brother.”
“Michael Cross?”
“Yes.”
Claire's pulse quickened.
“What if he found Grant's hidden room?”
Adrian looked at her.
“Then he may have left something inside.”
Claire turned the brass key in her palm.
They had a location.
A possible lock.
And a dead man's initials.
Then Claire noticed something else.
A handwritten note in the corner of the blueprint.
She recognized Grant's writing.
It contained a date.
Tomorrow.
And beneath it, four words:
FINAL TRANSFER. MIDNIGHT. W17.
Claire and Adrian looked at each other.
Grant wasn't simply back in Chicago.
May you like
He was coming to the warehouse.
And according to the note, they had less than twenty-four hours to learn what he intended to take.
