Chapter 8 - Smoke in the Server Room
By the time investigators reached Whitmore headquarters, smoke was pouring from a third-floor utility room.
The fire was small.
Too small.
It had damaged one specific bank of servers.
Grant called it an electrical malfunction.
The fire marshal called it suspicious.
Fortunately for us, Grant had misunderstood his own technology.
The company backed up its financial servers every twelve hours to an external data center in Ohio.
Destroying the hardware had accomplished almost nothing.
But attempting to destroy it accomplished something else.
It revealed panic.
By evening, the board suspended Grant temporarily.
He responded by firing the CFO.
The board informed him he no longer had that authority.
He threatened to sue them all.
Then he called me again.
This time I answered.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Stop this.”
“I haven't done anything.”
“You called your father.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what he would do.”
“No.”
I stood by my father's window watching Chicago light up below me.
“I thought he would protect me.”
Grant laughed bitterly.
“This isn't protection.”
“What do you call throwing your wife barefoot into a thunderstorm?”
Silence.
“That was different.”
“No.”
My voice stayed calm.
“That was the clearest thing you've ever done.”
He breathed heavily.
“Come home.”
I almost couldn't believe him.
“What?”
“Come home tonight.”
“Why?”
“We'll tell everyone it was a misunderstanding.”
“You slapped me six times.”
“You were hysterical.”
There it was.
The revision had begun.
“You attacked Vanessa.”
“I told her to remove my earrings.”
“She felt threatened.”
I closed my eyes.
Grant continued.
“I can fix this.”
“Not anymore.”
His voice changed instantly.
The tenderness vanished.
“You think your father can save you forever?”
“I don't need saving forever.”
I looked at the bruises reflected faintly in the glass.
“I just needed someone to help me remember I was allowed to leave.”
Grant said nothing.
Then he whispered.
“You'll regret this.”
I ended the call.
Daniel entered seconds later.
“That was long.”
“He threatened me.”
“Recorded?”
I held up the phone.
“Every word.”
For the first time all day, Daniel smiled.
Then he handed me an envelope.
“What is this?”
“Your petition.”
“For what?”
“An emergency protective order.”
I looked toward my father.
Arthur nodded once.
I signed.
May you like
At the exact moment my pen touched the page, Grant Whitmore was no longer my husband with unlimited access to my life.
He was a man I was beginning to remove from it.
