Chapter 9 - The Red BookGrant Vance vanished with two suitcases and three million dollars.
Fire crews surrounded the building.
The roof had partially collapsed.
Flames glowed through shattered windows.
I stood behind a federal vehicle beside Owen, watching twenty-one years of secrets burn.
“Did Preston do this?”
“Probably.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Not yet.”
Carter was kept separately with agents.
Lena had made it clear his cooperation did not erase his crimes.
He seemed to understand.
Firefighters worked for hours.
The blaze had started in two locations.
Accelerant was suspected.
That was good for an arson case.
Terrible for anything stored inside.
By evening, the fire was controlled.
A federal evidence team entered with fire investigators.
We waited.
At nine, Lena returned.
“Most paper records are gone.”
I closed my eyes.
“But?”
She smiled faintly.
“There’s a basement archive.”
Owen straightened.
“What condition?”
“Concrete room. Fire door. Sprinklers.”
“How much survived?”
“Enough.”
The next three days moved faster than I could process.
Federal subpoenas were issued.
Computers seized.
Accounts frozen.
Corporate offices searched.
Preston Vance appeared on television outside Vance Industrial headquarters.
He called the investigation a “malicious family dispute.”
He claimed Elaine was mentally unwell.
He claimed Carter had been manipulated by me.
He called my father “a disgraced thief.”
That was his mistake.
Because Dad’s old audit firm still had records.
Not evidence of theft.
Evidence Daniel had reported irregularities internally.
A retired partner came forward.
Then another.
A former Vance employee contacted investigators.
Then three.
Then twelve.
People who had spent years believing missing pension funds were accounting errors suddenly realized they might have been robbed.
News vans surrounded the Vance estate.
Carter entered a cooperation agreement.
Camille did too.
Elaine gave a seventeen-hour statement across three days.
Owen barely slept.
I stayed with my parents.
My wedding dress remained in a garment bag in their guest closet.
I couldn’t look at it.
On the fourth morning, Lena called.
“We found something at the warehouse.”
“What?”
“A safe.”
My heart jumped.
“Another ledger?”
“Not exactly.”
Inside were old hard drives.
Backup tapes.
Contracts.
Photographs.
Audio recordings.
And a handwritten note from my father.
The note identified a storage account containing copies of wire instructions.
But one item mattered more than the rest.
A mini-DV tape.
Recorded at a marina.
Date stamped July 21, 2005.
The night before Dad died.
We watched it at a federal office.
Poor resolution.
Grainy image.
Security footage from the marina.
Dad appeared at 10:14 p.m.
Preston arrived at 10:22.
They argued.
No audio.
At 11:07, Dad walked away.
At 11:11, Preston made a phone call.
At 11:16, another man arrived.
I recognized him from an old photograph.
Gerald Moss.
The police official.
He and Preston spoke.
Then Moss walked toward the boat slips.
The tape ended.
“That doesn’t prove murder,” Lena said.
“No.”
“But it proves Moss lied.”
“How?”
“His original statement claimed he had never met your father.”
Owen leaned toward the screen.
“Do you have marina access logs?”
“We’re looking.”
Two hours later, they found them.
Moss’s vehicle remained on site until 2:03 a.m.
Dad’s boat exploded at 7:40 the next morning.
Still not murder.
But enough to reopen the death investigation.
Preston’s attorneys responded aggressively.
They attacked Elaine.
They attacked Carter.
They attacked Owen.
They attacked me.
Then private information began appearing online.
My salary.
My old college address.
My mother’s medical bills from years ago.
My parents’ mortgage.
Photos from Carter’s and my vacations.
Articles described me as “the disgruntled bride.”
One columnist suggested I had orchestrated the entire scandal after a marital dispute.
I wanted to disappear.
Mom refused to let me.
“You know what your father hated most?”
“What?”
“Bullies who relied on embarrassment.”
She pushed a plate of pancakes toward me.
“He used to say shame only works if you agree to carry it.”
I looked at her.
“I married Carter.”
“Yes.”
“I trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“I brought these people into our lives.”
“You did.”
Her directness surprised me.
Then she reached across the table.
“And none of those things make their crimes yours.”
That afternoon, I gave one statement outside my attorney’s office.
Twenty cameras.
Dozens of reporters.
I kept it short.
“My father died twenty-one years ago. Evidence now suggests he spent the final years of his life trying to expose financial misconduct involving people connected to Vance Industrial. I am cooperating fully with investigators. I will not respond to personal attacks.”
A reporter shouted, “Do you still love your husband?”
I stopped.
The cameras leaned toward me.
“I loved the man I thought he was.”
Then I walked inside.
The clip went everywhere.
That evening, Carter called from his attorney’s office.
I almost didn’t answer.
“You did well,” he said.
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“I know.”
Silence.
“Did you ever love me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Before or after you realized who I was?”
“After.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because the first time I saw you, you were a name in a file.”
I closed my eyes.
“And then?”
“You spilled coffee on me.”
Despite myself, I laughed once.
He did too.
Then his voice broke.
“I wish that had been the beginning.”
“So do I.”
We sat in silence across a phone line.
Finally, he said, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“My father kept a red notebook.”
“Owen knows about the ledgers.”
“This isn’t financial.”
“What is it?”
“Leverage.”
“Against whom?”
“Everyone.”
Judges.
Police.
Politicians.
Executives.
Family members.
Affairs.
Bribes.
Secrets.
Debts.
Threats.
“He called it the Red Book.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who does?”
Carter hesitated.
“Grant.”
His uncle.
The man who had stood at my wedding staring at Elaine on the floor.
“Where is Grant now?”
“That’s the problem.”
I felt cold.
May you like
“What?”
“He disappeared yesterday.”
