Chapter 4 - The Empty Estate at Point LookoutGrant’s Bentley roared up the winding coastal road toward the Harrington family estate, its high beams cutting through the torrential sheets of rain.
His heart pounded against his ribs like a sledgehammer. She’s there, he convinced himself. She’s hormonal, scared, and listening to her father. I’ll talk her down. I’ll promise her a bigger allowance, a house in Aspen, a nanny. Whatever it takes.
He rounded the final cedar-lined curve, expecting to see the sprawling stone mansion illuminated against the storm.
Instead, he found total, pitch-black darkness.
He slammed on his brakes, throwing the car into park, and jumped out into the pouring rain, not even bothering to grab an umbrella. Water soaked through his handmade Italian suit instantly, flattening his hair against his forehead.
He sprinted up the grand stone steps of the Harrington manor and pounded his fists against the heavy oak double doors.
"Claire! Open up! I know you're in there!"
No answer. Only the howling wind off the Sound.
He tried the brass handle. It turned smoothly. The door swung open with a heavy, ominous creak.
Grant stepped inside, flicking on the hallway wall switch. The lights buzzed to life, casting an eerie, sterile glow over a completely empty foyer.
There were no Persian rugs. No grandfather clock. No family portraits lining the staircase.
Just like his own home, the Harrington estate had been completely hollowed out.
"What the hell...?" Grant whispered, his voice trembling in the cavernous, empty space.
He walked through the dark, echoing corridors, pulling out his phone to use its flashlight. The living room—usually filled with priceless antiques and heavy velvet drapes—was an empty, cavernous box.
In the center of the hardwood floor sat a single object.
It wasn't a note this time.
It was a manila legal envelope, sealed with red wax, bearing the official stamp of Vance & Sterling Attorneys at Law.
Grant’s hands shook violently as he tore the wax seal open, pulled out a stack of thick parchment papers, and read the bold heading by the flickering light of his phone screen:
NOTICE OF LIS PENDENS AND TEMPORARY RESTRAINING ORDER. PLAINTIFF: CLAIRE WHITMORE DEFENDANT: GRANT WHITMORE
He flipped to the summary page, his eyes darting across the legal jargon until they locked onto the financial disclosures.
Claire hadn't just emptied their joint account. She had uncovered the secret corporate subsidiary Grant had set up three years ago to embezzle funds from Whitmore Urban Holdings to finance his lavish lifestyle with Natalie and buy her a luxury penthouse in Tribeca.
The documents detailed every wire transfer, every secret hotel receipt, every luxury jewelry purchase, and—most damning of all—sworn affidavits from Natalie herself, detailing their affair.
Grant froze, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.
Natalie?
How could Claire have Natalie’s testimony? Natalie didn't even know Claire's last name was Whitmore until three months ago, and she had sworn she never spoke to her.
He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers and dialed Natalie’s number.
May you like
It rang once. Twice.
Then a recorded voice cut through: "The subscriber you have dialed is no longer in service."
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