Chapter 8 - The Second BoatPolice reopened Grant Whitmore's disappearance as a potential criminal case.
Not attempted murder yet.
Not until evidence supported it.
Charles appreciated the restraint even while hating the waiting.
Marina records showed Peter Lang rented a twenty-two-foot service boat under a company account at 8:54 p.m.
He returned it at 11:16.
Grant's emergency beacon activated at 9:41.
Coast Guard logs placed weather worsening rapidly around 9:20.
The second boat had enough time to reach Grant.
But what happened on the water?
No camera.
No surviving witness known.
Then Detective Walsh found a repair claim.
The service boat returned with damage to its port-side rail.
Filed as storm impact.
Photograph showed blue paint transfer.
Grant's sailboat hull was navy blue.
Lab testing might still be possible if archived parts existed.
They didn't.
Boat had been repaired and sold.
But the photograph mattered.
Could have been accidental contact.
Could have been collision.
Peter Lang disappeared from his Rhode Island residence two days earlier.
Coincidence ended there.
He knew investigation was moving.
Charles called Owen.
“Freeze anything tied to Rourke Protective.”
“Already done.”
“Damon?”
“His personal accounts aren't ours.”
“Find legal exposure.”
“We're cooperating with federal investigators.”
Good.
Then Owen said,
“You need to see something.”
“What?”
“Grant's emergency fund.”
“What about it?”
“Someone tried to transfer nine hundred thousand dollars this morning.”
“After the freeze?”
“Yes.”
“Failed?”
“Yes.”
“Who initiated?”
“Grant Whitmore.”
Charles stopped.
Again.
Grant's credentials.
“But Grant is at Seabrook.”
“Exactly.”
“IP address?”
“Massachusetts.”
Charles felt a burst of hope.
“Could Grant himself be accessing it?”
Owen hesitated.
“Maybe.”
That was important.
Maybe Grant had more awareness than Meredith admitted.
Police and Charles's attorneys secured a Massachusetts court order for an independent welfare check.
Seabrook objected.
Lost.
Charles flew with Savannah.
Detective Walsh advised against bringing her.
Savannah refused to remain behind after learning her father might be there.
Charles supported her.
But he set one condition.
“If doctors say seeing you could medically harm him, we listen.”
Savannah's jaw tightened.
“Independent doctors.”
Charles almost smiled.
“Agreed.”
Seabrook looked nothing like a prison.
That made it more disturbing.
Trees.
Brick buildings.
Private rooms.
Therapy gardens.
Wealth disguised everything.
An independent neurologist examined Grant first.
Dr. Elaine Foster emerged after an hour.
“He is alive.”
Savannah burst into tears.
Charles had to sit down.
“How aware?”
“Significantly more than records suggested.”
Charles looked toward Seabrook's administrator.
The man avoided his eyes.
Dr. Foster continued.
“Mr. Whitmore has cognitive deficits. Short-term memory is inconsistent. He has difficulty with sequencing and fatigue.”
“Does he know his name?”
“Yes.”
“Savannah?”
Dr. Foster smiled gently.
“He asked why she hasn't visited.”
Savannah covered her mouth.
Charles felt tears.
“Me?”
Dr. Foster hesitated.
“He believes you died.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Can I see him?”
“Yes.”
Savannah went first.
Grant sat near a window.
Thinner.
Hair shorter.
A scar near his temple.
But alive.
Savannah stopped in the doorway.
Grant looked up.
For two seconds, confusion.
Then his face broke.
“Sav?”
She ran.
Grant opened his arms.
They collided gently.
Savannah sobbed into his shoulder.
“You're alive.”
“I think so.”
It was exactly the dry humor Grant would use.
Charles turned away to cry privately.
Then Grant saw him.
Everything changed.
Grant stared.
“Dad?”
Charles stepped into room.
“Yes.”
Grant began shaking.
“No.”
“It's me.”
“They said…”
“I know.”
Grant looked toward the Seabrook administrator.
Fear entered his face.
Charles saw it.
“Who told you I died?”
Grant whispered,
“Damon.”
Charles pulled a chair close.
“Damon lied.”
Grant stared at him.
Then at Savannah.
“You didn't leave me?”
Savannah cried harder.
“No!”
Grant covered his face.
Charles felt rage unlike anything before.
Eight months.
Damon and Meredith had built an artificial world around an injured man.
Grant finally whispered,
“I tried to call.”
Charles took his hand.
“I know.”
“They said you were gone.”
“I know.”
“They said Savannah needed to move on.”
Savannah shook her head violently.
“I never did.”
Grant looked at her.
Then something returned to his expression.
Not memory exactly.
Fear.
“The boat.”
Charles leaned closer.
“What about it?”
Grant closed his eyes.
“I remember lights.”
“Another boat?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Grant's breathing changed.
Dr. Foster stepped closer.
“Don't push.”
Charles stopped.
Grant opened his eyes.
“One word.”
“What?”
“Lang.”
Peter Lang.
Grant remembered him.
Then:
“He came beside me.”
“Why?”
Grant shook his head.
“Can't…”
“It's okay.”
Grant gripped Charles's wrist.
“Not Meredith.”
Charles froze.
“What?”
Grant looked desperate to make him understand.
“Boat…”
He swallowed.
“Not Meredith.”
Then exhaustion overtook him.
Dr. Foster ended the conversation.
But Charles understood the distinction.
Grant was trying to tell them Meredith hadn't caused the boat incident.
That didn't make her innocent.
It meant someone else had.
As Charles stepped into hallway, federal agents approached Seabrook's administrator.
They had found forged medical guardianship paperwork.
And inside Grant's room, behind a locked desk drawer, investigators had discovered a second phone.
One outgoing call had been made that morning.
The attempted $900,000 transfer.
Grant had initiated it.
But the destination wasn't Meredith.
It wasn't Damon.
It was an account under one name:
May you like
Peter Lang.
Grant had been trying to pay the man who may have tried to kill him.
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