Chapter 8 - Everyone He BlamedNatalie was moved immediately.
Grant had violated the protection order.
He had tracked us.
He had entered secured property with stolen credentials.
Most importantly, he had proven he was still focused on me.
Detective Ortiz wanted me moved again.
I refused.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Every time he gets close, I disappear.”
“That’s how we keep you alive.”
“And then what? Another apartment? Another name? Another locked door?”
Ortiz leaned back.
“What are you suggesting?”
“I want him caught.”
“So do we.”
“Then use me.”
My mother immediately objected.
“No.”
Ortiz’s expression hardened.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m the one thing he keeps coming back for.”
“That does not make you bait.”
“He thinks I’m still afraid enough to obey him.”
“You are afraid.”
“Yes.”
That silenced everyone.
“I’m terrified.”
My voice shook.
“But I’m done pretending fear means I can’t choose what happens next.”
Ortiz studied me.
Eventually she said, “Even if we considered an operation, you would never be placed alone with him.”
“Fine.”
“No improvisation.”
“Fine.”
“No heroic nonsense.”
“I’m not heroic.”
“That may be the first smart thing you’ve said in five minutes.”
The plan developed over forty-eight hours.
Police believed Grant monitored several old email accounts.
We would give him something to see.
My mother sent a message to an old family address she knew he could access.
Claire won’t cooperate with prosecutors. She says she just wants the marriage over quietly. She keeps talking about getting her things from the house.
The message was intentionally vague.
Then another:
I told her not to go alone Saturday. She won’t listen.
The house was under police control, but Grant might not know how thoroughly.
Saturday arrived.
I wore a wire.
Detective Ortiz personally checked it.
“You still have time to back out.”
“No.”
My mother hugged me so tightly I almost changed my mind.
Evan didn’t know about the operation.
I had purposely not told him.
Part of me knew he would try to stop me.
At 4:00 p.m., officers positioned themselves inside neighboring houses, parked vehicles, and a utility van.
I entered my home alone.
Technically alone.
There were officers hidden in the basement and garage.
More outside.
My heart still hammered.
Nothing had changed since the night before my assault.
Grant’s coffee mug sat beside the sink.
His jacket hung near the stairs.
Our wedding photograph remained on the living-room shelf.
I stared at the smiling woman in it.
She had no idea what marriage would cost her.
I picked up the frame.
“You deserved better,” I whispered.
At 4:37, the back door opened.
Every muscle in my body froze.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Familiar.
Then his voice.
“Claire.”
I turned.
Grant stood inside the kitchen.
He looked terrible.
His beard was uneven.
His clothes hung loosely.
There was a healing cut near his eyebrow.
But his eyes were exactly the same.
Possessive.
Calm.
“I knew you’d come back.”
I forced myself not to look toward the hidden camera.
“Grant.”
“You look better.”
I said nothing.
“I’m sorry about your face.”
My stomach twisted.
Not I’m sorry I hurt you.
Sorry about your face.
“You fractured my orbit.”
“I lost control.”
“You said there was a deer.”
He gave a small smile.
“We both said things.”
“No. You said things. You told me what to say.”
He stepped closer.
I held my ground.
“Do you have any idea what they’ve done to me?”
I almost laughed.
There it was.
His suffering.
His reputation.
His money.
His company.
“I lost everything,” Grant said.
“You tried to insure my death for six and a half million dollars.”
His face changed.
“Miles told you.”
“Police found it.”
“Miles set me up.”
“You forged my signatures.”
“He did.”
“You created fake medical records.”
“Miles handled paperwork.”
“You followed me.”
“I was protecting you.”
“From what?”
Grant stepped closer.
“From people like Miles.”
“Then why write my suicide note?”
His expression went completely still.
For three seconds, I knew we had him.
A guilty person could deny.
An innocent person would have been shocked.
Grant only looked annoyed that I knew.
“That wasn’t what it looked like.”
“It looked like a plan.”
“It was insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Against you leaving.”
My blood ran cold.
“What does that mean?”
Grant rubbed both hands over his face.
“I never planned to hurt you.”
“You already did.”
“I mean permanently.”
The officers listening through my wire were hearing everything.
I needed him talking.
“You wrote a note saying I killed myself.”
“It was leverage.”
“Leverage?”
“If you filed for divorce, if you tried taking half the company, if you started making accusations… I needed options.”
My throat tightened.
“What option involved my death?”
He slammed one palm against the counter.
“I SAID I WASN’T GOING TO KILL YOU.”
The old Claire would have flinched.
I didn’t.
Grant noticed.
He lowered his voice again.
“Look at what these people have done to you.”
“These people saved me.”
“They turned you against your husband.”
“You smashed my face into a steering wheel.”
“You were leaving me!”
The words exploded from him.
Silence followed.
Grant’s breathing became heavy.
I whispered, “So you did it because I tried to leave.”
He realized what he had admitted.
“Claire…”
“Say it.”
“You were hysterical.”
“Say what happened.”
“I grabbed you.”
“And?”
“You pulled away.”
“And?”
“You hit the steering wheel.”
I stared at him.
“You hit my head against it three times.”
His mouth tightened.
“You always exaggerate.”
There he was.
The man I had lived with.
I suddenly wasn’t afraid of forgetting anymore.
He reached inside his jacket.
Everything happened at once.
Detective Ortiz’s voice screamed through my hidden earpiece.
“CLAIRE, DOWN!”
I dropped.
The kitchen doors burst open.
Officers flooded the room.
Grant pulled out—
A phone.
Not a gun.
He raised both hands immediately.
“What the hell?”
Police pinned him against the counter.
For one horrible second, I believed it was over.
Then Grant drove his elbow backward.
An officer stumbled.
Grant ran.
He crashed through the dining room, kicked open the patio door, and sprinted toward the woods behind our property.
Police followed.
I remained on the kitchen floor shaking.
Gunshots did not fire.
Sirens screamed.
A helicopter was requested.
Twenty minutes passed.
Thirty.
Forty.
Ortiz returned covered in mud.
“Did you get him?”
Her expression told me before she spoke.
“No.”
Grant had escaped through a drainage tunnel beneath the neighboring construction site.
But something changed during the operation.
We no longer needed Grant’s confession.
We had it recorded.
He admitted writing the note.
He admitted using it as leverage.
He admitted assaulting me because I tried to leave.
The case had become stronger than ever.
Then an officer entered carrying a clear evidence bag.
Inside was the phone Grant had reached for.
Its screen was still unlocked.
A map application was open.
There were three saved locations.
My mother’s house.
The hospital where Evan worked.
And one address none of us recognized.
Detective Ortiz searched it.
Her face turned grim.
“What?”
“That address belongs to Natalie Shaw’s sister.”
May you like
Grant wasn’t only coming after me.
He was hunting everyone who could testify against him.
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