Chapter 2 - THE CONFESSION FROM THE GRAVE
My hand hovered over the mouse pad.
The hotel room was completely silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of Lily breathing in the next bed. She was clutching the stuffed rabbit she’d had since the NICU, her small face finally relaxed after the humiliation downstairs.
I clicked the attachment.
NATHAN BENNETT — CONFIDENTIAL STATEMENT.Dated: October 14th.
Three days before his car supposedly lost control on a rain-slicked highway.
If anyone is reading this, the document began, it means my brother finally got what he wanted. I am writing this to ensure my wife, Melissa, does not inherit my controlling shares of Bennett Industries. Because as of yesterday, I have absolute proof that my nine-month-old son, Owen, belongs to Grant.
I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.
I found the clinic receipts in Melissa’s purse, Nathan wrote. They’ve been carrying on an affair for two years. Right under my roof. Right under Claire’s nose.
Tears burned my eyes. Eight years. I had spent eight years sharing holidays, sitting across dining tables, holding hands in prayer with a husband who had betrayed his own brother and fathered a child with his sister-in-law.
But the next paragraph made the blood freeze in my veins.
Grant isn’t just stealing my wife, Nathan’s letter continued. He is draining the company. He’s forged Claire’s signature on a secondary line of credit to cover his massive gambling debts. I confronted him tonight. I told him I am going to the board on Monday, and I am taking Claire with me. He threatened me. He said I would never make it to the boardroom.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Nathan hadn’t died in a tragic accident. He had been murdered. And he had been murdered to protect the very lies that were now destroying my daughter’s life.
I cannot trust the police in this town, Nathan concluded. Our mother, Judith, has half the precinct on her payroll. But I have hidden the absolute proof—the original forged loan documents and the dashcam footage of my argument with Grant. I left it in the one place they will never look. Inside the silver music box I gave Claire for her wedding anniversary.
I shot up from the desk chair.
The music box.
Nathan had given me a beautiful, heavy antique silver music box six months before he died. He told me it was a family heirloom meant for a "true Bennett woman." Judith had been furious. Grant had tried to throw it away twice, claiming it was broken because it didn't play music.
I had kept it on my bedroom dresser back in Ohio for eleven years.
Suddenly, the electronic lock on my hotel room door clicked.
The heavy door swung open, and Grant stepped inside. He smelled like expensive scotch and the cigars he always smoked with his mother.
He didn't look apologetic. He looked annoyed.
“Are you done throwing your little tantrum?” he asked, loosening his tie. “You embarrassed my mother in front of the entire resort.”
I slammed my laptop shut. “You hit our daughter, Grant. Over a piece of bacon.”
“I disciplined her,” he sneered, walking toward the minibar. “She’s weak, Claire. Just like you. You both need to learn your place in this family.”
He poured a glass of whiskey, his back to me.
“Speaking of which,” Grant said casually, taking a sip. “My mother thinks it’s time we finalize the estate planning. Since Lily clearly isn't cut out to inherit the business, I’ve had the lawyers draft a share transfer. Owen gets my half of the company when he turns eighteen.”
I stared at him. He was standing there, casually demanding I hand over the empire my money had built, to the bastard son he had conceived with his brother’s wife.
“You can’t transfer those shares, Grant,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “They’re secured by my initial investment. You don't own them outright.”
Grant turned around. A cold, menacing smile spread across his face.
“Actually, Claire, I do. You signed the release waiver six weeks ago. Don't you remember? The stack of tax documents I brought you in the kitchen?”
My stomach plummeted. The argument. The day he shoved me. He had buried a release waiver in a stack of routine tax forms. He had orchestrated the entire fight to distract me so I would sign without reading.
He hadn't shoved me out of blind anger. He had shoved me because he had finally gotten what he wanted, and I was just in his way.
May you like
“You planned it,” I whispered, absolute horror washing over me.
“I secured my legacy,” Grant corrected coldly. He set his glass down and took a step toward me. “Now, pack your bags. We’re going home. And Claire? When we get back, you’re going to hand over that ugly silver music box Nathan gave you. Owen wants it for his bedroom.”
