Chapter 2 - Grant's PasswordCharles watched the video again during the drive to the mansion.
Not because he needed to see what Meredith had done.
Once was enough.
He watched because of what she had said.
He doesn't even know where his own family's money is disappearing to.
Not “went.”
“Is disappearing.”
Ongoing.
Meredith knew.
Maybe she was doing it.
Maybe she was afraid of whoever was.
Either possibility was dangerous.
Charles called Imelda.
She answered in a whisper.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
“Where is Savannah?”
“In her bedroom with me.”
“Meredith?”
“Downstairs.”
“Has she touched Savannah again?”
“No.”
“Police?”
Imelda hesitated.
“I didn't call.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Savannah begged me not to.”
That hurt.
“Why?”
“She thinks Meredith will blame her.”
Charles stared out the car window.
“She won't.”
“Savannah believes she can.”
There was the real damage.
Meredith had convinced a twelve-year-old that truth itself might become evidence against her.
“Keep the bedroom door locked.”
“Yes.”
“Don't confront Meredith.”
“I won't.”
“I'll be there in twelve minutes.”
Charles ended the call.
Then Owen called again.
“I found six months of Harbor Meridian transfers.”
“How much?”
“Two point one million.”
Charles stared ahead.
“What?”
“Possibly more through another vendor.”
“From where?”
“Household operating accounts, two family investment accounts, and one Grant-controlled legacy account.”
“Grant's account should be dormant.”
“It is.”
“Then how?”
“Someone used an emergency authorization certificate.”
Charles knew what Owen meant.
Before Grant disappeared, he had arranged emergency signing authority for certain family obligations while traveling.
Charles.
Grant's attorney.
And Grant himself.
Meredith did not have that authority.
“Who accessed it?”
“System says Grant.”
“That's impossible.”
“I know.”
Charles lowered his voice.
“Could the credentials have been copied?”
“Yes.”
“By Meredith?”
“Possibly.”
“Who else?”
“Grant's attorney. His former CFO. Anyone with physical access to his security device.”
Grant's former CFO.
Damon Rourke.
Charles disliked the man.
Grant had trusted him.
That distinction mattered now.
“Where is Damon?”
“Boston, supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“I'll verify.”
Then Owen said,
“Charles, there is one transfer that doesn't fit.”
“What?”
“Most money goes through Harbor Meridian. But $37,000 a month goes directly to something called Seabrook Neurological Services.”
Charles frowned.
“Medical?”
“Looks like it.”
“For Meredith?”
“No patient name.”
“Location?”
“Massachusetts.”
Charles's mind immediately went to Grant.
He dismissed it.
Too easy.
Too impossible.
His son had disappeared at sea.
Search crews had found debris.
Grant's jacket.
A damaged emergency beacon.
No body.
But the Atlantic did not always return people.
Charles had spent eleven months learning not to turn hope into evidence.
“Find out who the patient is.”
“I'll try.”
The car turned through the mansion gates.
Newport limestone walls rose beyond manicured hedges.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
Suddenly hostile.
Charles entered through the front door.
Meredith was waiting.
Of course she was.
Elegant beige dress.
Perfect hair.
No visible panic.
“Charles.”
He said nothing.
She smiled cautiously.
“You're back early.”
“Where is Savannah?”
“Upstairs.”
“Why?”
“She had an episode.”
Charles stopped.
Meredith continued.
“She became aggressive.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Toward whom?”
“Me.”
Charles looked at her hands.
No scratches.
No torn clothing.
“What happened?”
“She went through my office.”
“This house doesn't contain your office.”
Meredith's expression tightened slightly.
“The upstairs sitting room.”
“And?”
“She took financial documents.”
Charles stared.
Interesting.
Meredith was already moving the story toward money.
Then she said,
“I think Grant's disappearance has affected her more deeply than we understood.”
Charles's voice remained calm.
“You think she's unstable.”
“I think she needs help.”
“Psychiatric help?”
Meredith hesitated.
“If necessary.”
There it was.
A twelve-year-old asks questions.
Adult labels questions symptoms.
Charles had seen that tactic in business.
He had never imagined it being used on his granddaughter.
“Show me the documents she supposedly took.”
Meredith's face changed.
“They're gone.”
“Convenient.”
“Charles.”
He walked past her.
She followed.
“What is this?”
“Where is your work bag?”
Meredith stopped.
“What?”
“Your brown leather bag.”
Her eyes flickered.
Only a fraction.
Charles caught it.
“Why?”
“Because I'm asking.”
“I'm not comfortable with you searching my belongings.”
Charles turned.
“You were comfortable forcing my granddaughter's face against a trash bin.”
Meredith stopped breathing.
He held up his phone.
Played three seconds.
Savannah's hands gripping the rim.
Meredith's face went white.
“Charles—”
“No.”
He stopped the video.
“I have all of it.”
Meredith's eyes filled.
“It isn't what it looks like.”
“Do not insult both of us.”
“She attacked me first.”
“Imelda recorded before you knew she was there.”
Meredith looked toward the staircase.
Fear.
Not shame.
Charles noticed.
“Where is the bag?”
She said nothing.
“Meredith.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Depends what I find.”
She whispered,
“You have no idea what you're opening.”
Charles stared.
“That sounds very similar to guilt.”
“No.”
Meredith's voice dropped.
“It is a warning.”
Charles stepped closer.
“From whom?”
Meredith looked toward the upstairs hall.
Then back at him.
“I can't tell you.”
“Can't?”
“No.”
“Or won't?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Those are not the same thing.”
Charles stared for several seconds.
Then his phone rang.
Owen.
He answered.
“I found Seabrook.”
Charles listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
Meredith watched him closely.
Too closely.
Owen continued speaking.
Charles felt every muscle in his body tighten.
“Repeat that.”
Owen did.
Seabrook Neurological Services was not a hospital.
It was a private long-term neurorehabilitation facility outside Worcester.
Discreet.
Expensive.
Known for treating wealthy patients under confidentiality agreements.
The monthly payments were tied to one patient.
The name on the account:
Graham West.
Charles almost dismissed it.
Then Owen said,
“Date of birth matches Grant's.”
Charles stopped breathing.
Initials.
G.W.
Grant Whitmore.
He looked at Meredith.
For the first time, her composure collapsed.
Charles whispered,
May you like
“My son is alive.”
And Meredith did not ask what he meant.
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