Chapter 2: The Man in Our Living Room
At 8:41 p.m., my father's car rolled into the driveway.
I was sitting at the top of the stairs, exactly where he'd told me not to be, watching the lights sweep across the front windows.
He had texted fifteen minutes earlier.
*I'm almost home. Stay upstairs until I call you.*
I had obeyed for approximately four minutes.
Then I heard the doorbell.
Mom was in the living room arranging flowers that didn't need arranging. She looked toward the front door, checked her reflection in the glass cabinet, and smiled.
"That must be Grant," she said to herself.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
She had expected him to return.
I moved down two steps, careful not to make a sound.
Mom opened the door.
Grant stood on the porch holding a bottle of wine.
He was no longer wearing his tie. His collar was open, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
"You're back," Mom said.
"I forgot something.""
"What?""
He lifted the bottle.
"An excuse.""
Mom laughed.
I gripped the banister.
This was happening again, only hours after I had recorded them.
My mother stepped aside.
"Come in quickly.""
Grant entered and set the bottle on the console table. He glanced toward the stairs, then reached for her hand.
"Did you talk to Michael?""
"No. He's still in Boston.""
"You're sure?""
"I spoke to him this afternoon. His meeting was going late.""
Grant exhaled.
"Good. I don't want to keep sneaking around like a teenager.""
"Then stop acting as if this can be fixed by making demands.""
He released her hand.
"I've waited long enough, Laura.""
She caught his wrist.
"Please. Not tonight.""
"Then when?""
Mom looked toward the ceiling.
"After the deal closes. Once Michael signs everything, things will be different.""
My stomach tightened.
The deal?
What deal?
Grant studied her face.
"You're certain he'll sign?""
"He trusts you.""
Grant's expression changed. His jaw tightened, and he looked toward the front door.
"That's what worries me.""
Before Mom could respond, headlights swept through the windows.
A car door closed outside.
Then another.
The front door opened.
My father stepped into the foyer carrying his overnight suitcase.
He wore the same navy suit I'd seen him leave in the day before yesterday. His tie was loosened, his face was tired, and his hair was damp from the rain.
"Michael!"" Mom exclaimed.
For half a second, her expression was pure surprise.
Then she turned toward Grant, as if only just remembering he was there.
Dad's eyes moved from her to the wine bottle on the console table.
Then to Grant.
Grant straightened.
"Mr. Hayes.""
My father stopped moving.
I had seen Dad angry before. I had seen him frustrated when business deals collapsed and devastated when his older brother died. But I'd never seen him look at another human being the way he looked at Grant in that moment.
It was recognition.
And something far worse beneath it.
"Grant," Dad said quietly.
Grant swallowed.
"Michael, I can explain.""
Dad set his suitcase down.
The small click of its wheels against the hardwood seemed to fill the entire house.
Mom took a step toward him.
"Michael, sweetheart, why didn't you tell me you were coming home?""
Dad didn't look at her.
His eyes remained fixed on Grant.
"How long have you been working for me?""
Grant blinked.
"Eleven years.""
"Eleven years," Dad repeated.
"Yes.""
"And how many times have I welcomed you into this house?""
Grant's mouth opened, then closed.
Mom reached for Dad's arm.
"Please. We should talk about this privately.""
He moved his arm away.
Not violently.
Not even impatiently.
He simply refused to let her touch him.
"Privately?"" he asked.
His voice was so quiet that Mom seemed to shrink.
"Michael, please.""
Dad finally turned toward her.
For the first time, I saw his face clearly.
His eyes were red, as if he hadn't slept. His skin looked pale beneath the foyer lights. But the thing that frightened me most was how completely controlled he seemed.
"Laura," he said, "how long?""
Mom's lips trembled.
"How long has what been going on?"" she asked.
I closed my eyes.
Even now, she was trying to lie.
Dad reached into his jacket and removed his phone.
"I watched the video Emma sent me.""
Mom went still.
Grant looked toward the staircase.
His gaze landed on me.
I stepped backward into the shadows.
"You recorded us?"" he called.
Dad's head snapped toward him.
"Don't speak to my daughter.""
Grant raised both hands.
"I didn't mean—"
"Then don't.""
Mom began to cry.
"Michael, I made a terrible mistake.""
Dad looked at the wine bottle.
Then at the open collar of Grant's shirt.
Then at his wife.
"One mistake," he said.
"Is that what we're calling this?""
"It didn't mean anything.""
Grant turned toward her sharply.
"Laura—"
She stared at him in panic.
"Not now.""
Dad's expression changed.
It was almost imperceptible, but I saw it. He had noticed the way they looked at each other.
Not like two people caught in an isolated error.
Like two people who had built a secret world and were suddenly afraid it might collapse.
Dad reached for his phone again.
Grant's face tightened.
"Michael, before you do anything, you should hear me out.""
Dad ignored him and dialed a number.
Someone answered after two rings.
"Nora," Dad said.
His voice had become calm again.
Too calm.
"I need the emergency protocol activated tonight.""
There was a pause.
"No, not tomorrow. Tonight.""
He walked a few steps away from them, toward the staircase.
"Freeze the pending authorizations, preserve every access log connected to the Boston acquisition, and suspend Grant Mercer's credentials until further notice.""
Grant's face lost its color.
Mom stopped crying.
Dad continued, "I want outside counsel involved before anyone contacts him at the office. And nobody deletes anything. Not a message, not an email, not a single file.""
He listened.
Then he looked directly at Grant.
"Yes, Nora. Especially his files.""
He ended the call.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Grant took a step forward.
"You can't do this.""
Dad placed the phone in his pocket.
"I just did.""
"You can't suspend my access without giving me a chance to explain.""
"You're welcome to explain everything to our lawyers.""
Grant's eyes widened.
"Our lawyers?""
Mom grabbed Dad's sleeve.
"Michael, please. Don't bring the company into this. Whatever happened between Grant and me, it has nothing to do with your business.""
Dad slowly turned toward her.
For the first time that night, he looked genuinely shocked.
Not at the affair.
At her words.
"Nothing to do with my business?"" he repeated.
Mom seemed to realize she'd said too much.
"I mean—"
"What did you think Grant was doing here tonight?""
She looked at the floor.
Dad waited.
She said nothing.
Then he turned toward Grant.
"Put your phone on the console.""
Grant stiffened.
"What?""
"Your company phone. Put it down.""
"This is ridiculous.""
"Put it down, Grant.""
Something in Dad's voice made him obey.
The phone landed beside the wine bottle with a sharp plastic tap.
Dad glanced toward the stairs.
"Emma?""
My legs nearly gave out.
I stepped into view.
"Yes?""
"Come downstairs, sweetheart.""
I descended slowly, my hands gripping the banister.
Mom stared at me.
The look in her eyes wasn't anger exactly.
It was disbelief.
As if she couldn't understand why her own daughter had refused to protect her secret.
When I reached the bottom step, Dad held out his hand.
I took it.
His fingers were cold.
"Did you tell anyone else about the video?"" he asked.
"No.""
"Good.""
Then, without taking his eyes off Grant, he said, "I want you to stay close to me tonight.""
Grant laughed once, a sharp, humorless sound.
"You're acting as if I've committed a crime.""
Dad released my hand and walked to the console table.
He picked up Grant's phone, looked at its dark screen, and set it down again.
"That's precisely what I'm trying to determine.""
Mom covered her mouth.
And that was the moment I understood why both of them had suddenly become terrified.
Dad wasn't calling the police.
He wasn't threatening to destroy Grant's career in a fit of rage.
He was doing something much more deliberate.
He was freezing the entire business process that had brought Grant into our lives in the first place.
Whatever the two of them had been discussing before Dad arrived, it had something to do with the acquisition.
And my father had just decided to investigate it.
Then Dad turned to me.
"Emma, I need you to remember something important.""
"What?""
"Did Grant bring anything into this house besides the portfolio you recorded him with?""
I thought back to the afternoon.
The kiss.
The portfolio on the table.
Grant's phone call.
The way he'd moved past me.
"I don't know," I whispered.
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Think carefully.""
I closed my eyes and tried to remember every second of the video.
Then I remembered something I hadn't noticed at the time.
The portfolio hadn't been closed when Grant set it down.
And there had been a second object inside it.
May you like
A thick white envelope.
One with my father's company logo printed across the front.