Chapter 11 - The Phantom Wreckage
"Check the brake lines, Grant!"
Renata’s final, hysterical shriek seemed to bounce off the vaulted ceilings of the ballroom long after the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her.
The silence that followed was suffocating. The elite of New York stood frozen, champagne flutes halfway to their mouths, staring at Grant Callahan.
Grant didn’t move. He looked like a man who had just been shot in the chest but hadn't quite realized he was bleeding yet. All the color had drained from his face. His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were bone-white.
Two years ago, his wife, Sarah, had driven off a rain-slicked cliff in the Catskills. The police ruled it a tragic accident—hydroplaning on a treacherous curve.
An accident.
"Grant," I whispered, stepping toward him.
He didn't hear me. He was breathing heavily, his eyes completely hollow. He swayed slightly on his feet.
"Daddy?" Lily's tiny, raspy voice broke the spell. She tugged gently on the hem of his tuxedo jacket.
Grant snapped out of his trance. He looked down at his daughter, then at me. The vulnerability in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by a terrifying, cold-blooded focus.
"Marcus," Grant barked, turning to his head of security.
Marcus was already on his radio, his face grim. "Yes, Boss."
"Clear the room. The gala is over," Grant ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "Then, get the State Police Commissioner on the phone. And find out where Sarah’s car is. I don't care if it was compacted into a cube—find it."
"Sir, the police released the wreckage back to the insurance company eighteen months ago," Marcus said cautiously. "I believe it's in a long-term holding lot in Queens."
"Get the keys. We are leaving right now."
"Grant, wait," I said, placing a hand on his arm. His muscles were corded tight as steel. "You can't go right now. You're in shock, and Lily has been through enough tonight. She needs to sleep."
Grant looked at my hand on his arm. Anyone else would have lost their job—or worse—for touching him like that. But instead of pulling away, he let out a ragged breath and nodded.
"You're right," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Take her back to the penthouse. Keep her safe, Emma. Please."
May you like
"I will," I promised.
"I'm going to Queens," Grant said, his eyes darkening with a deadly promise. "If Renata was telling the truth... I will tear this city down to its foundations."
