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“The police issued an arrest warrant for you. They wouldn’t tell Charlie what evidence they have, though there is evidence that you were in Madeline’s apartment building during the window she was killed. They’ll find you here...a day, maybe two. All it takes is calling your parents and finding out what other property you have access to. It would be best for you to go in on your own. With a lawyer.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Dear God, Regan! Do you actually think I could kill anyone?”
“You don’t have to convince me—you have to convince the police. Possibly a jury.”
“How can you sound so cold, so...fuck!” He turned his back to her.
It burned her, what he said. But she didn’t react. She needed answers.
Grant walked over to the bar on the opposite side of the dining area, pulled out a fresh glass from the cabinet, and poured himself a double shot of Scotch. He drank half in a gulp, didn’t bother with ice.
“That’s enough, Grant,” she said, her voice calm, collected, and yes—cold.
He didn’t return to the kitchen but watched her from the other side of the dining table.
“I found the letter you wrote to me in your desk.” She hadn’t meant to say that, but it came out. She didn’t apologize.
“You searched my house? How’d you get in?”
“You’re not all that original with your passcodes,” she said, perhaps a bit snarky. “You were supposed to meet me for dinner at your place. Instead, your girlfriend is killed, and you ran.”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“So you’ve said. Three times.”
“You don’t believe me.”
She did, and she hoped she wasn’t wrong. But she needed him to be as forthright as possible, and that meant not coddling him. She said, “We’ll talk about Madeline momentarily. First, I need to know what got Tommy killed and why you didn’t tell me you were working with him.”
He snorted. “Working with him?” Grant was angry, bitter, grieving.
She waited.
He finished his Scotch but didn’t pour another. If he had, she might have dumped the bottle down the sink. She needed him sober because his life was in danger, and that meant hers was, too.
He swore under his breath, ran both his hands through his disheveled hair, and sat down at the dining table.
She brought him the coffee she’d poured, put it in front of him, and sat across from him with her own mug. When he didn’t immediately speak, she said, “Tommy called me the morning he was killed, left a message that he had evidence pointing to someone hiring Adam Hannigan. Since I’ve been here, I’ve learned Tommy believed that Hannigan was hired to killyou.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that Chase was collateral damage. Her emotions were still too raw when she thought about her son. Remaining calm was the only way she would learn the truth from Grant, the only way she could protect him.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Grant whispered.
She waited. He didn’t say anything else.
“I talked to Peter Grey,” she said. “He told me, in his own twisted way, that Brock Marsh, a security company, was behind it. And the more I dug around, the more I realized that Brock Marsh is connected to you—through your law firm. Connected to Franklin.
“I don’t have all the answers yet,” she continued, “but I’m close. I will learn the truth. It goes back to one of your clients, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything.
“I’m your best bet right now of not only staying out of prison but staying alive,” she said, her anger rising. “But dammit, you owe me. You owe me because Chase was our son and you put his death on my shoulders. You blamedme.” And it had hurt. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but it had been so intensely painful to have the man she once loved, the man she shared a bed with, raised a child with, blame her for their son’s murder.
As if the pain of losing Chase wasn’t enough.
Grant finally spoke. “Tom called me three weeks ago. He wanted to meet. I said no. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted, and I don’t like him. Didn’t like him. He went out of his way to make me feel like a lesser man, and I knew it was because he was half in love with you.”
