Chapter 3 - The Bloodline Trust
I didn't flinch. If I pulled away, Grant would know I felt it.
"Where were you, Grant?" I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on his tear-streaked face.
"Hunting the bastard who did this to you," he choked out, burying his face against my hair. "Helena’s personal assistant—a guy named Vance. He slipped through the delivery docks before I could grab him. I tried to tackle him near the loading bay... cut my hand on the fence."
He pulled back, cupping my face with his clean hand. "Claire, the Pierces are bankrupt. Helena married Caroline off to me because she thought Bennett Capital would bail out their real estate empire. When she found out our father's trust didn't belong to me, she lost her mind."
I stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Dad didn't split the family assets fifty-fifty," Grant said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper so Miller couldn't hear. "He knew about my gambling debts from three years ago. The entire Bennett Trust—the portfolio, the waterfront property, the seventy million in offshore bonds—it all reverts to you on your thirty-second birthday."
My birthday was in forty-eight hours.
"Helena knew that," Grant continued, his eyes wide and pleading. "If you die before midnight on Friday, the assets pass directly to me as next of kin. Caroline overheard her mother promising Vance a two-million-dollar cut to make sure you never saw thirty-two."
It sounded horrific. It sounded completely plausible.
Except for one detail.
My father died four years ago. The trust documents were sealed under a probate order handled exclusively by my late husband’s law firm. No one outside of that legal team was supposed to know the contingent clauses.
"Grant," Detective Miller interrupted, stepping between my brother and the bed. "If you had a physical altercation with this Vance suspect at the loading docks, why didn't you call dispatch? Why come straight here?"
"Because my sister was dying!" Grant shouted, spinning around to face the detective. "You want to interrogate me while the psycho who poisoned Claire is driving down I-95?"
"Uncle Grant," Maisie’s small voice broke the tension.
Grant’s posture softened immediately. "Hey, sweetie. You okay?"
Maisie pointed at Grant's cuff. "Why do you have lipstick on your wrist? It’s not Aunt Caroline’s color. Hers is pink. That one is purple."
Helena Pierce had been wearing plum-colored, dark magenta lipstick. The same color smeared faintly beneath the cufflink of Grant’s left sleeve.
Grant’s smile froze for a microsecond before he laughed it off, pulling his sleeve down. "Aunt Helena grabbed me when I confronted her in the lobby, baby. It’s nothing."
He looked back at me. His pupils were cold, calculating pinpricks.
"Get some rest, Claire," Grant murmured, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "I hired private security for your hospital door. No one gets in or out without my signature. You're completely safe now."
He tapped the pocket where the glass vial rested, turned on his heel, and walked out.
I looked at Detective Miller. "Check the parking garage security logs. Now."
"Why?" Miller asked.
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"Because," I said, cold sweat dripping down my spine, "Grant didn't chase anyone into an alley. He was in a car with Helena Pierce twenty minutes ago."
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