Chapter 1 - The Lock Grant Didn't Have a Key To
Grant took a slow, deliberate step toward the threshold of Owen’s bedroom. The color had completely drained from his face, leaving his immaculate complexion looking sickly under the soft amber light of the hallway. He looked at the three heavy leather suitcases resting at my feet, then back up at my face. He was searching for the hysteria he had promised his family downstairs. He was searching for the tear-stained cheeks, the trembling hands, the shattered composure of a wife driven to the edge by public humiliation.
He found none of it.
"What is this, Mara?" Grant’s voice cracked slightly, losing the smooth, practiced authority he had used at the dinner table. "Are you throwing a tantrum? Packing up the kids in the middle of the night because you can't handle a simple conversation?"
"I told you downstairs, Grant," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying across the silent room like a blade sliding from a sheath. "We’re leaving."
"You aren't going anywhere with my children," he hissed, stepping fully into the doorway to block my path. He straightened his shoulders, attempting to regain the intimidating posture he usually relied on. "You’re emotional. You’ve been unstable for months. If you walk out that door right now, I will call the police, report child abduction, and have you institutionalized before sunrise. Do you really think anyone will take your word over mine? My mother is downstairs. My brother is downstairs. They saw how out of control you were."
I looked down at the third suitcase—the sleek, reinforced steel briefcase I hadn't let out of my sight for ninety days.
"Call them," I said quietly.
Grant blinked, taken aback by my lack of resistance. "What?"
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"Call the police, Grant. Call your lawyer. Call whoever you need to call." I reached down and unlocked the latch of the third suitcase with a sharp, metallic click. I didn't open it all the way; I merely popped the seam enough for him to catch a glimpse of the thick, color-coded legal folders inside, stamped with the red emblem of the State Financial Crimes Division. "Because while you were spending the last four months convincing your mother and brother that I was having a mental breakdown, I was spending every evening handing your bank transactions over to a forensic accountant."
Grant’s hand froze on the doorknob. The arrogance in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, icy wave of sheer panic.
