Chapter 7: Grant Makes His Move
The call came from a number I recognized.
Grant's mother.
Sylvia.
I almost sent it to voicemail.
Then I thought about what Patricia had said — *the next seventy-two hours are when men like Grant make their worst decisions* — and I answered.
"Ellen." Her voice was controlled.
Careful.
Nothing like the woman who had smiled in that restaurant.
"I think it's time we spoke.
Just the two of us."
"I'm listening," I said.
"This has gone far enough.
My son made mistakes.
I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
But what Brooke is doing now — the criminal filing, the DA — that will destroy him.
His career.
His entire future."
"He should have thought about that before he forged a document."
"Ellen." A pause.
"I'm prepared to offer Brooke a settlement.
Personally.
Not through the attorneys.
The house, clear title, and two hundred thousand dollars from my own account.
In exchange for withdrawing cooperation from the DA's investigation."
I sat down slowly.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
From Sylvia's personal account.
Not Grant's.
Hers.
"Why your account?" I asked.
Silence.
"Sylvia.
Why is the money coming from you?"
"Because I want this resolved," she said.
"Quickly and quietly."
"Or," I said, "because Grant doesn't have two hundred thousand dollars.
Because Brooke paid for everything and there's nothing left in his accounts that isn't already frozen."
She didn't answer.
"How long have you known what he was doing?" I asked.
"Not the deed.
The whole thing.
The control.
The recordings he didn't know Brooke was making.
How long have you known your son was doing this to my daughter?"
"Ellen—"
"Because you smiled," I said.
"In that restaurant.
When he grabbed her hair, you smiled.
And you said she needed to learn her place.
That wasn't surprise, Sylvia.
That was recognition.
You've seen him do this before."
The line was very quiet.
"I want to speak to Brooke," Sylvia said finally.
"You won't be speaking to Brooke.
You'll be speaking to Patricia Hale.
And I'll be forwarding a recording of this conversation to her office within the hour."
A sharp intake of breath.
"You recorded this call?"
"This is a one-party consent state," I said.
"I suggest you call Clifford Marsh."
I ended the call.
My hands were steady.
I was surprised by that.
I sent the recording to Patricia with a single line: *Sylvia just tried to buy Brooke's cooperation.
Two hundred thousand from her personal account.
She knows more than she's admitted.*
Patricia's reply came back in four minutes.
*This just became a much bigger case.
Don't speak to either of them again.
I'll call you at 3.*
I set my phone down on the kitchen counter.
Outside the window, the afternoon was ordinary and bright.
Birds.
A neighbor's lawnmower somewhere down the street.
May you like
I thought about Sylvia's smile in that restaurant.
And I wondered how many times she had watched her son do something like this — to someone else, somewhere else, before Brooke — and said nothing.
