Chapter 11
Grant had disappeared from the Ashford mansion that morning.
Melissa claimed she thought he was with lawyers.
Vivian, from custody, refused to speak.
Dr. Price was found in a motel outside Albany with a split lip, a packed bag, and fifty thousand dollars in cash.
He told police Grant had come to him in the night.
Not to help him escape.
To demand the truth.
Price gave enough of it to make the room go cold.
Claire’s parents had not died by accident.
Their car had been tampered with.
Price helped fake Claire’s death certificate.
Vivian paid him for twenty years.
But the order, he claimed, came from Vivian’s husband.
Charles Ashford.
Dead for eight years.
Claire sat very still when I told her.
“Uncle Charles smiled at my funeral,” she said.
“You remember?”
“I watched from a vent.”
I closed my eyes.
She continued, voice flat.
“I was seven. Vivian left the radio on downstairs. People came for a memorial dinner. I crawled to the vent because I heard my name. Charles said tragedy had made the family stronger.”
Her hands trembled.
“He toasted me.”
I wanted to break something.
Instead, I called Detective Mills and asked about Grant.
They found him two hours later at his father’s old hunting cabin.
He surrendered.
But not before giving them a locked case.
Inside were Charles Ashford’s journals.
Grant had taken them from Vivian’s safe years ago.
He had hidden them because he was afraid.
Afraid of his mother.
Afraid of what the journals proved.
Afraid of losing the life built on Claire’s grave.
The journals named everyone.
Vivian.
Charles.
Dr. Price.
A judge.
Two police officers.
And one trust attorney.
At the bottom of the final page was a note.
Claire must remain alive until twenty-five. After that, no loose ends.
Claire was thirty.
May you like
She read the copy once.
Then she vomited into the sink.
