Chapter 3 - THE BROKEN MELODY
“The music box?” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Owen is nine years old. Why on earth would he want an antique silver music box?”
Grant shrugged, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Melissa says it belonged to Nathan’s grandfather. It’s a male heirloom. It belongs to the true heir. Now, wake Lily up. We’re leaving.”
He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
I stood frozen in the center of the hotel room. Grant didn't want the box for Owen. He and Melissa had finally realized where Nathan hid the evidence. And they were rushing us home to get to it before I did.
I looked at Lily, still sleeping peacefully.
I couldn't get on a plane with this man. I couldn't let him back into our house in Ohio.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Rebecca.
“Claire?” she answered, her voice thick with sleep. “It’s two in the morning.”
“Rebecca, listen to me carefully,” I whispered, packing my suitcase with frantic, trembling hands. “I am leaving the resort right now. I’m taking Lily, and I’m renting a car to drive back to Ohio. I need you to go to my house.”
“What? Claire, what is going on?”
“Grant forced me to sign a share release waiver eight years ago by burying it in tax documents,” I said rapidly. “But Nathan left proof of Grant’s embezzlement and his affair with Melissa inside an antique music box on my dresser. Grant knows about it. He’s going to take it as soon as we get back.”
Rebecca was instantly awake. “Claire, if Grant forged documents and caused a fatal accident, you are in extreme danger. Do not let him know you’re leaving.”
“Just get the box, Rebecca. Please. Break a window if you have to.”
“I’m on my way,” she said.
I hung up. I gently shook my daughter’s shoulder.
“Lily, baby,” I whispered. “Wake up. We’re going on an adventure. Just you and Mommy.”
She blinked, rubbing her tired eyes. “Is Daddy coming?”
“No, sweetheart. It’s just us.”
I helped her slip on her shoes, grabbed my laptop bag, and quietly pulled our suitcase toward the door.
As I reached for the handle, the bathroom door swung open.
Grant stood there, holding a damp towel. His eyes dropped to the suitcase, then to my purse, and finally to Lily, who was clutching my leg in fear.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Grant asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave.
“I’m taking my daughter home, Grant,” I said, stepping firmly between him and Lily. “We’ll take a separate flight.”
Grant dropped the towel. He took three long strides across the carpet and grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging violently into my skin.
“You aren't going anywhere,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “You are my wife. You do what I tell you.”
“Let go of my mommy!” Lily screamed.
Without thinking, my eight-year-old daughter stepped forward and kicked her father as hard as she could in the shin.
Grant gasped in pain, instinctively letting go of my arm. He looked at Lily with pure, unadulterated rage and raised his hand to strike her.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the heavy brass table lamp from the entryway console and swung it directly into his shoulder.
Grant yelled, stumbling backward and crashing into the wall.
“Run, Lily!” I shouted, throwing the hotel door open.
We sprinted down the carpeted hallway, our footsteps echoing in the dead of night. We didn't wait for the elevator. We took the concrete emergency stairs all the way down to the lobby, bursting through the glass doors into the humid South Carolina night.
I flagged down a waiting taxi at the resort entrance.
“The airport,” I told the driver, shoving a hundred-dollar bill through the partition. “Hurry.”
As the taxi peeled away from the curb, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was a text from Rebecca.
Claire, I’m at your house.
My heart leapt. Did you find the box? I texted back.
A photo arrived a second later.
It was a picture of my bedroom in Ohio. The drawers of my dresser had been violently pulled out, clothes thrown everywhere.
And resting in the center of the bed was the antique silver music box.
It had been smashed open with a hammer. It was completely empty.
My phone rang in my hand. It wasn't Rebecca.
It was Judith.
May you like
I answered it, my hands shaking.
“Hello, Claire,” my mother-in-law purred, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. “Did you really think a cheap small-town lawyer could beat me to my own son’s house? Melissa and I took a private jet back to Ohio three hours ago.”
