Chapter 18 - The Man Waiting Outside the Courthouse
Six months later, I stood outside a federal courthouse holding a cup of coffee and wearing the same cream-colored coat I'd worn the night my flight was canceled.
The seasons had changed.
So had my life.
Charles Whitmore was facing multiple federal charges connected to fraud, obstruction, and the conspiracy surrounding my father's death.
Adrian Castellano was also under indictment for his role in Bellwether's financial operations and the intimidation of witnesses.
The proceedings were ongoing.
But the Holloway archive, Daniel Voss's testimony, Elena Ward's records, and Arthur Vale's documents had finally provided investigators with a coherent account of the conspiracy.
Sarah had become an important cooperating witness.
Ethan was safe.
She had also resigned from Whitmore & Associates.
We had argued about it.
Naturally.
"You can't just quit without another job," I told her.
Sarah looked at me.
"Grace, our former boss tried to get you killed."
"Fair point."
She had laughed.
Then she'd joined me in an entirely new venture.
HOLLOWAY LEGAL GROUP.
A small independent practice specializing in corporate accountability, financial fraud, and representing people who had been harmed by powerful institutions.
It wasn't glamorous.
Our first office had terrible plumbing, mismatched chairs, and a coffee machine that sounded like a lawnmower.
But it belonged to us.
More importantly, nobody could decide to suspend me for discovering the truth.
A substantial amount of recovered Bellwether money had been placed under court-supervised administration, with the aim of compensating eligible victims.
Several families who had lost their homes were finally seeing progress toward restitution.
My father's work hadn't been forgotten.
Neither had Thomas Castellano's.
And Griffin?
Griffin had spent months cooperating with investigators through his attorney.
He relinquished control of several businesses, closed others, and supported the examination of transactions linked to his former operations.
His legal position remained subject to the authorities and courts.
But the man who had once controlled every room he entered was learning to live without that power.
It was not an easy transformation.
He was stubborn.
Impatient.
Terrible at grocery shopping.
And utterly convinced that paying forty dollars for a sandwich was reasonable if someone delivered it quickly enough.
We fought occasionally.
Usually about ordinary things.
Which felt miraculous.
That morning, I exited the courthouse after giving a final statement concerning my father's records.
A familiar voice spoke from behind me.
"Counselor."
I turned.
Griffin stood near the bottom of the steps.
Dark coat.
White shirt.
No entourage.
No waiting convoy.
Just one handsome, slightly nervous man holding two cups of coffee.
I smiled.
"Mr. Castellano."
"I hear your testimony went well."
"It did."
"Would you like a ride?"
I pretended to consider.
"That depends."
"On?"
"Are there going to be three vehicles chasing us?"
He winced.
"I was hoping you'd eventually forget that."
"Never."
He handed me a coffee.
"Then perhaps you'll appreciate knowing I arrived in a perfectly ordinary car."
I looked toward the curb.
A modest dark-blue sedan was parked legally beside a parking meter.
I burst out laughing.
"What happened to the armored luxury vehicle?"
"Sold it."
"Why?"
"Apparently, operating costs were excessive."
I looked at him.
"Who told you that?"
"Rosa."
I laughed harder.
He watched me with a softness that still surprised me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring again."
"Occupational hazard."
I stepped closer.
He reached for my hand.
And there, outside the courthouse where my father's story was finally being heard, Griffin Castellano asked me something no one had ever asked so sincerely.
"Grace, are you happy?"
I looked at our joined hands.
At the city.
At the ordinary traffic passing beyond the courthouse steps.
Then I looked back at him.
"Yes."
He smiled.
"Good."
I squeezed his fingers.
"Are you?"
He considered the question.
"Not every day."
I appreciated the answer.
"Me neither."
"But I'm learning."
I leaned against him.
"That's enough for me."
He kissed my forehead.
Then he reached into his coat pocket.
My heart began pounding.
"Griffin."
"What?"
"If that's another emergency transmitter—"
He laughed.
"No."
"Another financial document?"
"No."
"A suspiciously expensive necklace?"
"Grace."
"Because I swear—"
May you like
He took a small velvet box from his pocket.
And suddenly, I forgot every argument I'd ever prepared.
