CHAPTER 4 — MY HUSBAND'S OTHER COMPANY
CHAPTER 4 — MY HUSBAND'S OTHER COMPANY
The sound of breaking glass came again.
This time it was closer.
My father grabbed my arm.
“Stay behind me.”
I stared at him.
“Who is in the house?”
“I don't know.”
“You said Grant was assigned to me.”
“Claire—”
“By whom?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Not now.”
That answer terrified me more than the footsteps.
For twenty-two years, my father had protected me with silence.
Now I was beginning to understand that silence had never meant he knew nothing.
It meant he knew too much.
A shadow moved beneath the door.
My father reached for the handle.
I whispered:
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Then someone knocked.
Three times.
Slowly.
My father's shoulders stiffened.
“Who is it?”
A man's voice answered.
“Mr. Vance?”
My father looked at me.
“Security.”
He opened the door.
A security officer stood outside.
“Sir, someone broke the rear window.”
“Did you see them?”
“No.”
“Cameras?”
“Disabled.”
My father swore under his breath.
I looked at the security officer.
“Was anyone inside?”
“We don't know.”
He looked toward me.
“Ma'am, you should leave.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
My father turned.
“Claire.”
“No.”
I held up the photograph.
“I'm done running away from this.”
He stared at me.
I could see the argument forming in his eyes.
Then he nodded.
“Fine.”
He turned to the officer.
“Lock the property down.”
The man nodded.
My father looked at me.
“We're going to the office.”
“What office?”
“The one Grant never knew existed.”
The private office was beneath Vance Global's headquarters.
I had worked for the company for almost a year after college.
I had attended meetings there.
Met executives.
Walked through the lobby dozens of times.
I had never known there was another floor beneath the parking garage.
My father entered a code.
A steel door opened.
We descended a narrow staircase.
At the bottom was a room filled with computers, file cabinets, and monitors.
It looked nothing like the polished corporate offices above us.
There were no photographs.
No awards.
No furniture except a conference table and several chairs.
“This is where we investigate internal fraud,” my father said.
I looked at him.
“You had an intelligence department?”
“We call it risk management.”
“This looks like a government bunker.”
“Sometimes it feels like one.”
Miriam was already there.
She had brought several boxes.
“Tell me you found something,” my father said.
“I found everything.”
She placed a laptop on the table.
“Grant's other company.”
The screen showed a corporate registration.
Whitmore Strategic Holdings LLC.
I stared at it.
“That's his consulting company.”
“No.”
Miriam clicked.
Another name appeared.
Whitmore Strategic Holdings is only the public-facing entity.
She opened another file.
“Behind it are six companies.”
Then another.
“Then fourteen.”
Then another.
“Thirty-one.”
I stared.
“Thirty-one companies?”
“Yes.”
“What do they do?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“They don't operate businesses.”
She turned the screen toward me.
“They receive money.”
My father leaned closer.
“From whom?”
Miriam opened the transaction records.
I read the names.
Shipping companies.
Construction firms.
Technology suppliers.
Private equity funds.
Several names I recognized from Vance Global's contracts.
My father became very still.
“Those are our vendors.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Miriam scrolled.
“Over the past four years?”
She paused.
“Approximately eighteen point six million dollars.”
I stared at her.
“Eighteen million?”
“Yes.”
“Paid to Grant?”
“Indirectly.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
My father looked at the screen.
“I do.”
He pointed to one company.
“Westbridge Freight.”
“What about it?”
“They lost a major contract to us three years ago.”
Miriam nodded.
“They paid Grant six weeks before the contract was awarded.”
My father turned to her.
“Show me.”
She did.
The payment was listed as a consulting fee.
One million dollars.
Three days later, Westbridge received access to a confidential Vance Global bid document.
I felt sick.
“Who gave them the document?”
Miriam looked at me.
“Grant.”
My father slammed his fist against the table.
The sound echoed through the room.
“That's impossible.”
Miriam opened another file.
“It's not.”
She showed him the email.
Grant had sent the document from a private account.
My father's jaw tightened.
“Why didn't we catch this?”
“Because he used an intermediary.”
“Who?”
“An employee.”
My father looked at me.
“Who?”
Miriam clicked.
A name appeared.
David Mercer.
I recognized him.
“Grant's friend.”
“Former employee,” my father said.
“Where is he now?”
Miriam's expression changed.
“Dead.”
The room went silent.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
I stared at the screen.
“Was it investigated?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Accidental.”
My father looked away.
I noticed his hands.
They were shaking.
I had seen my father angry before.
I had never seen him afraid.
Now I understood the difference.
Anger made him louder.
Fear made him quiet.
“Dad.”
He didn't respond.
“Did you know David?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he worked with Grant?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about the money?”
“No.”
“Did you know he died?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
He looked at me.
“Because David was supposed to testify.”
My stomach tightened.
“Against Grant?”
“No.”
“Against who?”
My father didn't answer.
Miriam did.
“Against Thomas Whitmore.”
I stared at her.
Grant's father again.
“Why?”
“Because David discovered the original source of the money.”
“Where did it come from?”
Miriam opened another file.
The screen displayed a bank account.
I leaned forward.
The account belonged to a private foundation.
The same foundation we had found earlier.
The Eleanor Vance Memorial Fund.
I looked at my father.
“My mother's foundation.”
“Yes.”
“Grant was stealing from my mother's foundation?”
“No.”
My father spoke quietly.
“He was being paid through it.”
“By whom?”
He didn't answer.
I already knew.
“Thomas.”
My father nodded.
“Yes.”
We spent the next three hours tracing the money.
The deeper we went, the worse it became.
Payments moved through companies in Texas.
Then Delaware.
Then offshore accounts.
Some transfers were tiny.
Others were millions.
But all of them eventually converged on one account.
A private bank in Switzerland.
The beneficiary was hidden behind a trust.
Miriam managed to obtain the original registration documents.
I read the name.
Then read it again.
Eleanor Vance Holdings Trust.
My mother.
I felt dizzy.
“She didn't own this.”
My father shook his head.
“She did.”
“You said her estate was settled.”
“It was.”
“Then why is this still active?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at him.
“You really don't?”
“No.”
I studied his face.
For the first time, I believed him.
That frightened me even more.
Because if my father didn't know, then someone had been operating my mother's hidden trust for more than two decades without his knowledge.
And that someone had used Grant.
At midnight, Miriam found the oldest transaction.
The date was twenty-two years earlier.
Three days before my mother's death.
A payment of five hundred thousand dollars had been transferred from the Swiss account to a Texas company.
The company had one employee.
Thomas Whitmore.
I stared at the screen.
“That's it.”
My father shook his head.
“It's not.”
“Why?”
“Because the company didn't exist three days before the payment.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“It was incorporated the same week.”
Miriam nodded.
“And the registered agent?”
My father looked at her.
“Who?”
She displayed the name.
Arthur Vance.
My blood ran cold.
My father stood.
“That is impossible.”
Miriam looked at him.
“Your signature is on the incorporation documents.”
“I never signed that.”
“Then someone forged your signature too.”
I stared at the document.
My father's signature.
My signature.
My mother's name.
Grant's company.
Thomas Whitmore.
It was beginning to look less like a family tragedy.
It looked like a machine.
A machine built over twenty-two years.
And everyone had been a piece of it.
At 1:18 a.m., my father left the room.
I stayed behind with Miriam.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Did my father really not know?”
She looked at me.
“You don't trust him.”
“I don't know what to believe anymore.”
“That is understandable.”
“Was he involved?”
Miriam hesitated.
“I don't think so.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No.”
She sat down.
“Your father made mistakes.”
“What kind?”
“He trusted the wrong people.”
“And my mother?”
“He trusted the wrong person when it came to your mother.”
“Who?”
She looked at the door.
“Thomas Whitmore.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because Thomas saved your father's company once.”
“When?”
“Before you were born.”
“What happened?”
“Your father's first major shipping contract nearly destroyed him.”
“And Thomas helped?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He provided financing.”
“Then why did they become enemies?”
Miriam looked at me.
“Because your mother discovered where the money came from.”
I felt a chill.
“Where?”
She lowered her voice.
“Your father's company wasn't built entirely with legitimate money.”
I stared at her.
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying Thomas didn't save your father.”
She paused.
“He bought him.”
My phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
There was a photograph.
Grant.
Standing outside a bank.
Beside him was Thomas Whitmore.
The date was six months before my wedding.
Underneath the photograph was one sentence.
He was instructed to marry you.
Another message appeared.
He refused at first.
Then:
Then they showed him the file.
I stared.
“What file?”
A final message arrived.
The file about your mother.
I immediately called the number.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
I turned toward Miriam.
“Someone is contacting me.”
She looked at the messages.
“Do not reply.”
“Why?”
“Because they want you frightened.”
“Or informed.”
“Both can be true.”
I looked at the photograph.
Grant looked young.
Happy.
Almost innocent.
It was strange seeing him before our marriage.
Before the lies.
Before Vanessa.
Before the violence.
I zoomed in.
There was something in his hand.
A folder.
I recognized the logo.
Vance Global.
I enlarged the image.
There was a handwritten note taped to the folder.
Only three words were visible.
CLAIRE'S MOTHER.
At 2:04 a.m., Grant called again.
This time I answered.
“Where are you?”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Why?”
“Because you're in danger.”
“You don't get to say that after what you did.”
“I know.”
“You hit me.”
“I know.”
“You cheated on me.”
“I know.”
“You tried to steal my inheritance.”
“I didn't.”
I laughed.
“We found the companies.”
Silence.
“We found the payments.”
Still silence.
“We found David Mercer.”
His breathing changed.
That told me everything.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“He was going to testify.”
“Yes.”
“Against Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“Did Thomas kill him?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I swear to God, Claire, I don't know.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
He was silent for several seconds.
Then:
“I didn't marry you for your money.”
I closed my eyes.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But I didn't.”
“Then why?”
“I was told to get close to you.”
My heart stopped.
“By whom?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Then we're done.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Listen to me.”
“I've listened to you for seven years.”
“I know.”
His voice broke.
That surprised me.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Your mother.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Your mother left something behind.”
“So did you.”
“I found it before our wedding.”
“What?”
“The file.”
My hands began shaking.
“What was in it?”
Grant breathed slowly.
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Your mother's murder.”
I couldn't speak.
Then he said:
“She wasn't killed because she discovered someone stealing money.”
“Then why?”
“Because she discovered who ordered it.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
“Grant.”
“I can't say it over the phone.”
“Then tell me in person.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they're listening.”
I looked around the room.
The cameras.
The computers.
The dark windows.
My skin prickled.
“Who?”
He whispered:
“The person who owns my company.”
I frowned.
“Your company?”
“My other company.”
“Whitmore Strategic?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
His voice dropped.
“The company that owns Whitmore Strategic.”
I felt cold.
“Who owns it?”
Grant hesitated.
Then:
“Your father.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Miriam was watching me.
“What did he say?”
I didn't answer.
I looked toward the doorway.
My father stood there.
He had heard enough.
“Claire.”
I slowly stood.
“Does your company own Grant's company?”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Then why did he say you do?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I held up the phone.
“He says there's a company above Grant's company.”
My father walked toward me.
“What's the name?”
“I don't know.”
Grant hadn't said.
But then I remembered the photograph.
The folder.
The Vance Global logo.
The date.
Six months before my wedding.
I opened the photograph again.
There was a building in the background.
A sign above the entrance.
I zoomed in.
VANCE PRIVATE HOLDINGS.
I looked at my father.
“What is Vance Private Holdings?”
He went pale.
Miriam stood.
“Arthur?”
My father said nothing.
“Dad?”
He finally spoke.
“That company doesn't exist.”
I turned the screen toward him.
“Then why is it on the photograph?”
He stared.
And I watched the color drain from his face.
“Because,” he whispered,
“that building burned down twenty-two years ago.”
I looked at him.
“When?”
“The night your mother died.”
The room went silent.
Then Miriam's phone rang.
She answered.
Her face changed.
“What?”
She listened.
Then looked at me.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“They found Vanessa.”
“Where?”
“Outside the old Whitmore warehouse.”
“Is she alive?”
Miriam swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“She was shot.”
My heart stopped.
“Who shot her?”
Miriam looked at my father.
Then back at me.
“She survived long enough to give the police one name.”
I could barely breathe.
“What name?”
May you like
Miriam's voice dropped to a whisper.
“Arthur Vance.”
