Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Lockbox
By 5:00 PM, the Mercer mansion was entirely empty of guests.
The champagne flutes had been cleared away, the white rose arrangements left abandoned on the tables. Evelyn sat in the grand living room, holding a warm cup of tea, her hands still shaking as she watched Grant gently place Emma down on the plush velvet sofa.
Emma was exhausted. Her eyelids fluttered heavily, her thumb tucked into her mouth, her small body finally relaxing now that the terrifying woman was gone.
Grant covered his daughter with a soft cashmere blanket, kissed her forehead gently, and sat down on the coffee table beside her.
"She's sleeping," Grant whispered softly to his mother.
Evelyn wiped a tear from her cheek. "Grant... I am so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have noticed how terrified Emma was whenever Vanessa walked into the room. I was so blind... I just wanted you to be happy again after Claire..."
"It wasn't your fault, Mom," Grant said, his voice hoarse. "Vanessa was a master at playing the victim. She hid her true colors whenever I was around. But Emma... Emma saw right through her."
Grant looked down at his right hand. He was still holding the small black recording device, along with the torn crayon drawing Emma had given him.
SHE TOOK MOMMY AWAY.
Grant frowned slightly, staring at the drawing.
"Mom," Grant said slowly, his brows furrowing in deep thought. "Did you hear what Vanessa said on the recording?"
Evelyn blinked. "What do you mean?"
"She said... 'I found her secret files. I found everything she was hiding from Grant before she died.'" Grant repeated the words carefully, his heart beginning to beat faster against his ribs. "Claire was an investigative journalist. Before her accident, she was working on a major exposure piece involving offshore corporate fraud and real estate laundering."
Evelyn’s eyes widened. "Grant... you don't think..."
Grant stood up immediately and walked back down the west hallway toward Claire’s study. Evelyn followed closely behind him.
The study remained just as they had left it—boxes slashed open, paper scattered across the floor. Grant knelt beside the open storage boxes.
Vanessa hadn't just been looking for Claire’s jewelry or diary. She had been searching for something specific. One of the heavy metal lockboxes that Claire used for her confidential case files had been pulled out from the bottom of the second box.
The heavy steel lock on the front had been repeatedly struck with a heavy brass paperweight, but it hadn't opened. The lock had held firm.
Grant picked up the heavy metal lockbox. He knew the combination. It was the date of their wedding anniversary: 0-6-1-4.
He spun the dials. The heavy latch clicked open with a sharp, clear metallic sound.
Grant lifted the lid.
Inside lay a thick leather binder, several encrypted USB drives, and a stack of financial documents bearing the official letterhead of Cole International Development—the multi-billion-dollar real estate firm owned by Vanessa’s father, Victor Cole.
Grant’s breath hitched in his throat. He pulled out the top financial document and began reading.
As his eyes scanned the printed ledgers, bank routing numbers, and shell company transfers, his blood turned to ice.
"My God..." Grant whispered, his hand shaking violently as he turned the page.
"Grant, what is it?" Evelyn asked, leaning over his shoulder.
"Claire didn't die in a simple car accident," Grant said, his voice dropping into a terrifying, hollow whisper. "Her brakes failed on the highway eighteen months ago... because someone tampered with her vehicle."
Evelyn gasped, clutching her chest. "What?!"
Grant held up the top file, pointing to a series of internal emails printed out and paperclipped to a police accident report.
"Claire was investigating Cole International," Grant revealed, his jaw clenching so hard a vein throbbed on his temple. "Victor Cole and his daughter Vanessa were laundering hundreds of millions of dollars through fraudulent real estate developments. Claire had gathered enough evidence to send Victor and Vanessa to federal prison for the rest of their lives."
Grant turned the page, looking at a printed email dated three days before Claire’s fatal crash.
May you like
The email was sent from Vanessa Cole’s private account to an encrypted address. The subject line read: PROBLEM RESOLVED.
And attached to the email was a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars to a mechanic shop in downtown Los Angeles—the exact same shop where Claire had taken her car for a routine oil change two days before her steering and brakes mysteriously failed on the cliffside highway.
