Chapter 4 - The Money Grant Called His
Emily did not sleep that night.
Neither did I.
At 2:40 in the morning, I found her sitting on the kitchen floor with her back against the cabinets.
The lights were off.
“You okay?”
“No.”
I sat beside her.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked, “When did you know Mom was the person you wanted to marry?”
I smiled.
“That’s random.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I thought about Karen.
“We were twenty-three. She got a flat tire during a thunderstorm.”
Emily looked at me.
“You’ve told me this.”
“You asked.”
“She changed the tire herself.”
“Yes.”
“And you held the flashlight badly.”
“Very badly.”
Emily smiled.
“Mom said she married you despite the flashlight.”
“That sounds like her.”
The smile faded.
“How do you know when somebody loves you versus when they just need you?”
There was no father-approved answer to that question.
So I gave her the truth.
“Love makes room for you to be a person. Need turns you into a function.”
She stared at the floor.
“I think Grant needed me.”
“For what?”
“Respectability.”
I waited.
“When we first met, he had ideas but no money. I had a steady job, good credit, no debt.”
“You think that mattered?”
“I think everything mattered.”
Over the next week, investigators followed Grant’s accounts.
Northvale was more complicated than we expected.
It wasn’t a single company.
It was a shell.
Behind it sat two other entities.
One owned by Grant.
Another technically owned by a man named Peter Sloan.
Sloan had disappeared six months earlier.
Not literally.
He had simply stopped answering investigators.
Grant’s lawyer insisted all money transfers were legitimate investment activity.
Then the first victim agreed to testify.
Harold Vance.
He entered the county office using a cane and carrying a folder held together by a rubber band.
His wife, Diane, came with him.
Harold placed the folder on the table.
“My life is in there.”
Inside were statements, emails, contracts.
Grant had promised them a “protected income fund.”
According to Harold, he guaranteed their principal.
The documentation told a murkier story.
Risk disclaimers.
Contradictory language.
Electronic signatures.
Harold pointed to one.
“That’s not mine.”
Lena leaned closer.
“You’re certain?”
“I’ve signed my name the same way for fifty years.”
Diane reached for his hand.
“We trusted him because of Emily.”
Emily, who had agreed to sit in on the interview, stiffened.
“You knew me?”
Diane looked embarrassed.
“Not personally.”
“How?”
“Grant showed us photographs.”
Emily blinked.
“What photographs?”
“Your wedding. You working at the dental office. He said his wife was from a law-enforcement family.”
I felt anger rise again.
“He used me?”
Diane’s eyes filled.
“He said if his own wife and her father trusted him, why shouldn’t we?”
Grant hadn’t merely used Emily’s identity for accounts.
He had used our family as credibility.
Harold looked at me.
“He told me you advised the county on investment fraud.”
“I do.”
“He said you reviewed his operation.”
My hands tightened.
“I never reviewed anything.”
Harold nodded sadly.
“I know that now.”
Emily got up and left the room.
I found her in the hallway.
She was crying.
“This is my fault.”
“No.”
“They trusted him because of me.”
“They trusted a lie he told about you.”
“But my face was in it.”
“Your face isn’t consent.”
She wiped her cheeks.
“How many people?”
“We don’t know.”
“More than Harold?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Potentially dozens.”
She leaned against the wall.
“I want to help.”
“You are.”
“No. Really help.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I know where Grant keeps old paperwork.”
That got my attention.
“Where?”
“The shed.”
Investigators had searched the obvious areas after obtaining a warrant.
But Emily described a loose panel behind a shelving unit.
Grant kept emergency cash there.
“At least he used to.”
Lena obtained an expanded warrant.
The next morning, the search team returned.
Behind the loose panel, they found no cash.
They found an envelope.
Inside were seven prepaid debit cards, two USB drives, and handwritten notes.
One note contained initials.
H.V.
D.V.
M.R.
Beside each were dollar amounts.
Harold Vance’s initials appeared beside $81,200.
Below the list:
E.C. — 214,608.
Emily Carter.
And beneath her name, one word.
COVER.
I read it three times.
Emily stood beside me.
“What does ‘cover’ mean?”
I knew what I thought.
I did not say it.
Lena did.
“It could mean Grant was using your accounts to conceal where money moved.”
Emily closed her eyes.
Then an officer called from inside the shed.
“We found another envelope.”
This one contained photographs.
Pictures of houses.
Vehicles.
People.
Most appeared to be clients.
One photograph showed Harold getting into his car.
Another showed Diane at a grocery store.
Emily stared.
“Why would Grant have these?”
Then I saw one that made my blood run cold.
Emily.
Leaving my house.
Photographed from across the street.
The date printed in the corner was three weeks earlier.
May you like
Someone had been watching her before Grant ever discovered the $50,000.
And whoever took the photograph had been standing less than fifty yards from my front door.
