Chapter 6 - THE GHOST IN THE CLOCK
The iron gates of Judith Grant’s Buckhead estate were wide open when I pulled David’s unassuming sedan into the circular driveway. It was 8:00 PM. Through the massive bay windows, I could see them. Grant, Melissa, and Judith were sitting in the formal dining room, drinking champagne. Owen was on the sofa, playing a video game on a massive tablet.
They looked like a perfect, wealthy family. A family built on the bones of a murdered brother and a discarded wife.
I turned to David, who was sitting in the passenger seat. Lily was asleep in the back.
"Keep the engine running," I said, my voice dead calm. "Lock the doors. If I’m not out in ten minutes, call the police and give them Nathan’s letter."
David nodded, looking at me with a newfound respect. "Give them hell, Claire."
I walked up the stone steps and didn't bother knocking. I pushed the heavy mahogany front door open. The foyer was silent, save for the deep, rhythmic tick-tock of the massive antique grandfather clock standing in the corner.
As I stepped into the light of the chandelier, conversation in the dining room abruptly stopped.
Grant stood up, his face hardening instantly. He placed his crystal champagne flute on the table. Melissa looked like a deer in headlights, her hand flying to her throat—right to the sapphire pendant she was wearing. Judith simply sneered.
"You have a lot of nerve breaking into my home, Claire," Judith said, remaining seated. "Grant, call the police. The unstable woman has arrived."
"Don't bother," I said, my voice projecting clearly across the marble floor. I didn't look at Judith. I looked dead at Melissa. "I know about the necklace, Melissa. I know about the hotel in Boston nine years ago. And I know about Owen."
Melissa’s face drained of all color. She physically stumbled backward, knocking a chair over.
Grant rushed forward, stepping between me and Melissa. "Shut your mouth, Claire. You are delusional."
"Am I?" I reached into my pocket and tossed the faded antique jeweler's receipt onto the dining room table. It landed next to the caviar. "I found it in your travel bag, Grant. Along with the brass key to Nathan’s safety deposit box."
At the mention of Nathan's name, the air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Grant froze. For the first time in ten years, I saw genuine, unadulterated fear flash across his arrogant face.
"What are you talking about?" Melissa whispered, her voice trembling. She looked at Grant. "You went into Nathan's deposit box?"
"No," I corrected her, never breaking eye contact with Grant. "He couldn't. He didn't have Nathan's thumbprint. But I got a court order today. I read Nathan’s final letter, Melissa. He knew everything. He knew Owen wasn't his. He was going to leave you, and he was going to expose Grant for stealing his code to build Apex."
"Lies!" Judith shrieked, finally standing up, her composure shattering. "My son is a genius! Nathan was a mediocre engineer who died in a tragic accident!"
I took a step closer to the grandfather clock. "Nathan’s brakes failed on a dry mountain road, Judith. And I have the ledger showing Grant's monthly payments to the private investigator who paid off the mechanic."
Melissa let out a blood-curdling scream. It wasn't a gasp of shock; it was the sound of a woman realizing her entire reality was a horror story. She turned to Grant, her hands raised in fists.
"You killed him?" Melissa shrieked, striking Grant's chest. "You told me he left because he couldn't handle the pressure! You killed my husband?!"
"He was going to ruin us, Mel!" Grant roared, grabbing her wrists and throwing her back. The mask was completely gone. He was a monster cornered in the light. "He was going to take the company! He was going to take Owen! I did it for us!"
The confession echoed off the marble walls.
Owen, who had walked into the hallway from the living room, stood frozen. The tablet slipped from the nine-year-old’s hands, shattering on the tile floor.
"You killed my dad?" Owen whimpered, tears instantly spilling down his cheeks.
Grant turned, his eyes wild. "Owen, buddy, listen—"
I didn't wait. While Grant was distracted by the son he had stolen, I grabbed the heavy brass latch of the grandfather clock and yanked the glass door open. I reached into the dark casing, feeling around the swinging brass pendulum.
My fingers brushed cold metal. A small, black, magnetic lockbox taped to the back of the wood.
I ripped it free. The hard drive. The proof of the embezzlement.
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"Put that down!" Grant screamed.
He lunged for the antique desk in the hallway, yanking open the top drawer. When he turned back around, he was holding a matte-black 9mm handgun. He pointed it directly at my chest.
