Chapter 3 - A Hotel Room Reserved for a Dead Woman
I refused to believe Sarah was involved.
Not immediately.
Not after seven years of late-night coffee, emergency court filings, birthday dinners, and listening to her complain about terrible dates.
"She probably tracked the car," I insisted.
Griffin remained beside the security monitor.
"From the license plate you sent her?"
"Possibly."
"That plate isn't registered to this address."
"Then maybe she called someone."
"Who?"
I had no answer.
He touched the communication panel.
"Ask her to wait by the gate."
"Griffin—"
"If she's innocent, I want her alive long enough to prove it."
The words silenced me.
On the monitor, Sarah paced in the snow.
She looked frightened.
Then she reached into her coat.
My stomach tightened.
But she only retrieved her phone.
A moment later, the townhouse telephone rang.
Marco answered.
"It's her."
Griffin handed me the receiver.
"Sarah?"
"Grace! Thank God!"
Her voice cracked.
"Are you okay? I've been calling for an hour!"
"I'm fine. How did you find me?"
A pause.
"What?"
"This address. How did you find it?"
"Someone from the car service called me."
Griffin's expression darkened.
"What car service?" I asked.
"The one you used. A man said you'd been involved in an accident and that I should come immediately."
"Did he give you his name?"
"No. Grace, what's happening?"
I looked toward Griffin.
He shook his head once.
A warning.
"Sarah, listen to me. Get away from the gate. Go somewhere public."
"What?"
"Right now."
I watched the monitor.
Sarah turned toward the SUV across the street.
Its headlights switched on.
Then she began running.
"GRACE!"
The connection broke.
I rushed toward the door.
Griffin caught my wrist.
"Marco!"
The townhouse erupted into movement.
Two security men hurried outside.
Within seconds, the SUV accelerated away, skidding through the snowy intersection.
Sarah disappeared behind a delivery van.
I felt physically sick.
"Let me go!"
"Not while someone is trying to use her to get to you."
"She's my friend!"
"I know."
Something in his voice stopped me.
He wasn't dismissing my fear.
He understood it.
Twenty minutes passed before Marco returned.
Sarah was with him.
Her mascara had streaked down her cheeks. One knee of her trousers was torn, but she was otherwise unharmed.
She threw herself into my arms.
"Oh, my God, Grace."
I held her tightly.
"What happened?"
"A man grabbed my bag. I thought he was trying to rob me. Then he asked where the lawyer was."
Griffin exchanged a look with Marco.
Sarah pulled away.
Her eyes found Griffin.
Recognition spread slowly across her face.
"Wait."
She looked at me.
"Grace. That's Griffin Castellano."
"I know."
"The Griffin Castellano?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
He lifted an eyebrow.
"You're both remarkably encouraging."
Sarah didn't laugh.
Instead, she grabbed my hand.
"We have to leave."
"Where?"
"The police. The FBI. Anywhere."
Griffin stepped closer.
"Someone used your friend's identity to reserve a hotel room that was later deliberately set on fire. They also used information supplied to you to locate this property."
Sarah stared.
"What hotel room?"
I explained.
By the time I finished, her face had turned pale.
"But I didn't book anything."
"I believe you," I said.
Griffin looked at her.
"Who has access to Grace's corporate travel account?"
"Accounting. Senior management. Me, technically."
"Who else?"
Sarah hesitated.
"Mr. Whitmore."
My chest tightened.
Charles Whitmore.
Founding partner.
My mentor.
The man who had interviewed me when I was twenty-four and told me I had the potential to become one of New York's finest attorneys.
"That's impossible," I whispered.
Sarah looked miserable.
"Grace, there's something I didn't tell you."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
"This afternoon, Mr. Whitmore asked me for your travel itinerary."
"That's normal."
"He also asked for your personal emergency contacts."
"Why?"
"He said the company was updating security records."
I closed my eyes.
Griffin spoke gently.
"Sarah, did he ask whether Grace was traveling alone?"
Her face crumpled.
"Yes."
Nobody said anything.
I walked toward the fireplace and stared at the flames.
A man I had trusted for almost a decade might have helped arrange my murder.
Or perhaps he was simply another victim of Adrian's deception.
I desperately wanted to believe the second possibility.
Griffin approached.
"You're thinking there's an innocent explanation."
"I'm thinking accusations require evidence."
"Good."
I looked at him.
He continued, "Then we'll find some."
My eyes burned.
"Why are you helping me?"
He looked at the fire.
"Because seventeen years ago, I believed the wrong person."
A long silence followed.
Then he added, "I buried my father because of it."
Before I could question him, Marco's phone rang.
He listened.
His expression changed.
"Boss. We have confirmation from the hotel."
Griffin turned.
"Tell me."
"The room was registered to Grace Holloway. Security footage shows a woman entering shortly before the fire."
"Was she identified?"
"Not yet."
Marco swallowed.
"But emergency crews found a handbag in the room."
He looked directly at me.
"Inside was Miss Holloway's driver's license."
My hand flew to my purse.
My license was still there.
Someone had made a duplicate.
Marco continued.
"And there's something else."
"What?"
"The missing woman wasn't a decoy."
He held up his phone.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
A brunette woman with wide brown eyes.
I recognized her immediately.
Three months earlier, she had called my office from a blocked number.
She had said only one sentence before hanging up.
If you want to know where Bellwether's money went, find out who killed Thomas Castellano.
I pointed at the photograph.
"That's my anonymous source."
Griffin went completely still.
"What's her name?" I whispered.
His voice was barely audible.
"Elena Ward."
He looked at Marco.
"She's alive?"
Marco nodded.
"Critical condition. St. Catherine's Hospital."
Griffin closed his eyes.
May you like
Then he said something that made every person in the room fall silent.
"Elena Ward was my father's accountant."
