Chapter 5 - The Woman Grant BuriedTwo days later, Claire returned home with police.
The sound cracked through the room.
His face turned slightly with the impact.
Security outside the office moved.
Adrian raised one hand.
They stopped.
Claire’s palm stung.
“Don’t ever say that again.”
Adrian looked back at her.
“I deserved that.”
“You don’t get to rewrite my life.”
“I’m telling you what happened.”
“You said I saved you once. That doesn’t mean you loved me.”
“No.”
“Then why would Grant know?”
Adrian crossed the room and opened a safe concealed behind a wall panel.
He removed a small wooden box.
Claire’s anger faltered.
“What is that?”
He placed the box on the table.
Inside lay a faded photograph.
Claire picked it up.
Her own face stared back.
Twenty years old.
Hair shorter.
Cheeks fuller.
She was sitting on the steps of a brick building, laughing at someone outside the frame.
On the back, written in blue ink:
For the grumpiest man in Chicago. Try smiling. — Claire.
Her fingers trembled.
“I wrote this.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
Adrian removed another photograph.
This one showed them together.
Claire sat on the hood of an old pickup.
Adrian stood beside her.
Younger.
No scar near his temple.
He was looking at her instead of the camera.
Claire swallowed.
“Were we…”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
She looked at him.
Adrian sighed.
“I wanted us to be.”
“What happened?”
“The fire.”
Her chest tightened.
After the fire, Claire had spent six weeks recovering.
Her memory of the month preceding it had become fragmented.
Doctors called it trauma-related retrograde amnesia.
Most memories returned.
Some never had.
Claire had assumed they were insignificant.
Now she stared at proof that an entire person had vanished from her mind.
“Where did we meet?”
“My father’s grocery warehouse.”
Claire blinked.
“My summer job.”
“You handled invoices.”
“I hated that job.”
“You hated me more.”
Despite everything, she gave a small laugh.
“Why?”
“I told you your filing system was inefficient.”
“That sounds like something I would hate.”
“You told me to reorganize it myself.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“God.”
He smiled faintly.
It transformed his face.
For a second, Claire saw the young man from the photographs.
Adrian continued.
“You brought me coffee the next morning as a peace offering.”
“What kind?”
“Black.”
“I would never.”
“You complained about it.”
Claire stared at the photographs.
“Why didn’t you come back after I recovered?”
“I tried.”
“My father stopped you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Adrian’s smile vanished.
“My family was involved in things your father wanted nowhere near you.”
“Crime?”
“Yes.”
The directness surprised her.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the safest one.”
Claire set down the photograph.
“Did you hurt people?”
Adrian’s gaze did not move.
“Yes.”
Claire stepped away.
He did not follow.
“I was young. Angry. My father was murdered six months after the fire. I inherited enemies along with his businesses.”
“So the rumors are true.”
“Some.”
“And now?”
“Now everything I own is legitimate.”
Claire laughed humorlessly.
“People don’t transform criminal empires because they discover accounting ethics.”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I spent fifteen years cutting away everyone who refused to change.”
“That sounds violent.”
“It was.”
Claire looked at him.
“Why tell me?”
“Because you deserve the truth from at least one man in this city.”
That landed harder than she expected.
She looked back at the photographs.
“And Grant?”
“Grant worked for one of my father’s financial advisers.”
Claire frowned.
“He told me he started in commercial lending.”
“He did. After stealing seven million dollars through false property loans.”
Claire’s head snapped up.
“From you?”
“From companies I inherited.”
“And you knew?”
“Eventually.”
“Why didn’t you have him arrested?”
“Because the records tying him to it disappeared.”
“Samuel?”
“No.”
Adrian looked out the window.
“My uncle.”
Claire sensed something darker.
“Grant worked with your family?”
“For a while.”
“And then he married me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“To hurt me.”
Claire laughed.
But nothing was funny.
“Grant married me for revenge against a man I couldn’t even remember?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
Adrian hesitated.
“Then he discovered your family trust.”
Claire stared.
“What trust?”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“You don’t know?”
“My parents left me the house and some investments.”
“Claire.”
The way he said her name made her stomach drop.
“Your maternal grandfather created a trust in your name.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Today?”
She nodded.
“Approximately eighty-four million dollars.”
Claire stared at him.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was impossible.
“I would know if I had eighty-four million dollars.”
“Not if Grant controlled the documents.”
“My attorney handles the estate.”
“Who recommended him?”
Claire stopped.
Grant.
“Arthur Keane.”
Adrian nodded.
“Grant’s college roommate.”
The room tilted.
Claire grabbed the edge of the desk.
“Sit.”
“Don’t.”
Adrian stopped himself.
Claire’s breathing became shallow.
Her marriage.
Her finances.
Her friendships.
Her doctors.
Her lawyers.
Grant had placed himself between her and everything.
“What does the trust own?”
“Shares in several industrial properties. Two investment funds. Land near O’Hare. And something Grant wants more than the money.”
“What?”
“Voting rights.”
“For what?”
“Chicago North Freight.”
Claire recognized the name.
One of the largest private logistics networks in the Midwest.
Adrian continued.
“Your grandfather helped found it.”
Claire whispered, “Grant has been trying to acquire Chicago North Freight for years.”
“Yes.”
“If he controls my trust…”
“He doesn’t.”
She looked up.
“Not legally.”
Adrian’s eyes turned cold.
“But if you die while married to him, your current estate documents transfer most controlling interests to Grant.”
Claire felt every hair on her arms rise.
“You’ve seen my will?”
“My attorneys found the filing.”
“I signed a will five years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I thought everything went to charities.”
“It did.”
“What changed?”
“An amendment filed eighteen months ago.”
Claire shook her head.
“I never signed an amendment.”
Adrian’s voice dropped.
“Then somebody forged your signature.”
Claire looked toward the rain streaking the windows.
Grant had thrown her from a moving car.
His driver was dead.
Her signature had been forged.
And if she had died last night, Grant would have inherited exactly what he had spent years trying to acquire.
Claire turned slowly.
“He wasn’t angry about the files.”
Adrian shook his head.
“No.”
“He was planning this.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Claire stared at the man she had forgotten.
Then at photographs of a life stolen from her memory.
For the first time since waking, fear began transforming into something else.
Rage.
“Help me destroy him.”
Adrian held her gaze.
“Legally?”
Claire’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
May you like
A faint smile touched his scarred face.
“That’s going to disappoint several people who work for me.”
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