Chapter 4 - THE HOUSEKEEPER’S WARNING
Later that afternoon, the rain cleared, leaving the massive stone estate bathed in a cool, silvery twilight.
Hannah Reed was standing on the west terrace, carefully wiping down the wrought-iron tea table where Grant usually took his afternoon infusion. Her hands moved rhythmically with a damp microfiber cloth, but her mind was racing a mile a minute.
Since her encounter with Grant in the library three nights ago, she had lived in a state of quiet terror. She had risked her job—her livelihood, her only shelter for herself and her daughter—by speaking up to the most feared man on the New York waterfront.
A heavy, measured step sounded behind her on the flagstone patio.
She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
“Mrs. Reed.”
Hannah froze, her cloth hovering over the metal table. She turned slowly, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Grant stood at the edge of the terrace doors, hands in his pockets, his face turned toward the distant, gray line of the Long Island Sound.
“Mr. Mercer,” she whispered.
“You were right,” Grant said flatly.
Hannah’s breath caught. “About… Dr. Hale?”
“He came this morning,” Grant said, walking slowly across the patio toward her, navigating the familiar space without a cane or a guide. He stopped three feet away from her, his blind eyes fixed somewhere near her left shoulder. “When I asked for an independent specialist, he didn't argue medicine. He threatened me with insurance files.”
Hannah’s hand flew to her mouth. “Insurance files? What does insurance have to do with your eyes?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Grant said, his voice hard as iron. “Daniel Cross is currently digging into Hale’s financial accounts and medical filings from five years ago. But Daniel is a security man, not a medical investigator. He doesn't know what to look for in hospital archives.”
“And you want me to look?” Hannah asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“I want you to help me break into my own medical history,” Grant corrected. “My private archives are locked in the subterranean vault beneath the west wing. Only two people have the biometric clearance codes: me, and Dr. Vernon Hale.”
Hannah stared at him in disbelief. “Mr. Mercer, if Dr. Hale finds out—if your security chief finds out—we’ll both be out on the street before morning. Or worse.”
“Daniel Cross is loyal to me, but he follows protocols,” Grant said. “If Hale has spent five years manipulating my medical records under the table, he’s had help inside my own corporate network. Which means we can't trust anyone on the security payroll right now.”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice until it was barely a rustle against the wind coming off the Sound.
“You want to protect your daughter, Mrs. Reed? You want a future where you aren't hiding in a carriage house waiting for a billionaire’s charity? Help me find out what happened to my eyes five years ago. Because I have a feeling the explosion at Pier 17 wasn't just an accident.”
Hannah looked into those unseeing slate-gray eyes. She saw no weakness in them—only a deep, burning furnace of unquenchable fury.
May you like
She swallowed hard, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides.
“When do we start?” she asked.
