Chapter 6 - The Desperate Blackmail
The fog had rolled in thick from Narragansett Bay, wrapping the wrought-iron gates of Harbor House in a damp, ghostly shroud. The yellow halogen floodlights of the security booth cast long, distorted shadows across the wet gravel driveway.
Grant’s black Mercedes SUV was parked crookedly across the entrance, its engine idling with a low, irregular rumble.
As I walked out of the administrative portico, flanked by Marcus and two armed security officers, Grant stumbled out of the driver’s side. He had changed out of his ruined tuxedo into an expensive cashmere overcoat, but his hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and his swollen cheek was purpling under the harsh lights.
Diane emerged from the passenger side, clutching a thick leather portfolio against her chest like a shield.
“Caroline!” Grant shouted, taking two rapid steps toward me before Marcus stepped forward, his hand resting conspicuously on his hip holster. Grant stopped, flinching. “Caroline, thank God. Tell these thugs to back off. We need to talk inside.”
“You have three minutes, Grant,” I said, keeping ten feet of wet gravel between us. “Say whatever pathetic lie you came to deliver, and then get off our property before the state police arrive.”
“This isn't a lie!” Grant pleaded, his voice cracking with exhaustion and terror. “Caroline, you have to listen to reason. I know you’re hurt. I know finding out about Leo today was a shock. But you’re letting your emotions blind you to reality! My Boston investors are already calling my phone! The rumors from the ballroom are leaking on social media! If your father doesn't issue a joint press release by 8:00 AM saying this was all an elaborate family prank or a misunderstanding, my credit line is dead!”
“Your credit line is dead, Grant,” I said cold-bloodedly. “And so is whatever future you thought you had in this state.”
Diane stepped around the hood of the Mercedes, her face pale, drawn, and twisted with desperation.
“You think you hold all the cards, don't you, Caroline?” Diane spat, tapping the leather portfolio with her diamond rings. “You think because you threw a tantrum and slapped my son in front of your country-club friends that you’ve won? Look at this!”
She unzipped the portfolio and pulled out a stack of glossy photographs and financial audit summaries. She held them out toward the floodlights.
“What is that, Diane?” I asked without moving.
“These are copies of your grandfather’s offshore medical trusts from 2018,” Diane said, her voice dropping into a vicious, triumphant hiss. “The ones he used to fund your specialized treatments in Switzerland before his death. We have the tax declarations. We have the wire transfer receipts. If the IRS reviews how those private medical foundations were categorized under the Harbor House charitable trust, your father will spend the rest of his life in federal prison for tax evasion!”
I stared at her in utter disbelief. “You’ve been digging through my dead grandfather’s medical records?”
“Grant’s firm did your family’s auxiliary bookkeeping for three years!” Diane sneered. “Did you think we were blind? We found the discrepancies eighteen months ago! We kept quiet because we were joining our families. We kept quiet because Grant loved you! But if you let my son go under tomorrow, I swear to you on my own life, I will hand these files directly to the Department of Justice by noon!”
The sheer wickedness of it took my breath away.
Grant hadn't just cheated and forged my signature. He and his mother had held a fabricated blackmail dossier on my family for over a year, keeping it in reserve in case we ever discovered his mistresses, his embezzlement, or his lies.
Grant took a step closer, lowering his voice into a disgusting, oily whisper of faux-sympathy.
“Caroline, baby... look at me,” Grant murmured, his eyes searching mine. “I don't want Diane to do this. I don't want to hurt your dad. I know how much you love him. All we need is the thirty-million-dollar guarantee signed on Monday morning. That’s all! You don't even have to live with me! We can announce an amicable separation in six months. You keep Harbor House, I take my Block Island properties, Lila takes Leo to Florida, and we bury the tax files forever. Everyone wins.”
He genuinely thought he had me. He thought the mention of my father going to prison would break my spine, that I would crumple like I used to when the surgeries failed and I felt like a broken burden to everyone around me.
I looked at him. I looked at the dark bags under his eyes, the weak, trembling curve of his mouth, the sickening cowardice hidden behind his expensive clothes.
Then I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my iPhone.
The screen was glowing green. A small red dot was pulsing in the corner.
“What is that?” Diane demanded, her voice suddenly jumping an octave.
“That’s an encrypted audio stream, Diane,” I said calmly. “Connected directly to Evelyn Vance and Assistant United States Attorney Thomas Keller, who happens to be sitting in our conference room upstairs on speakerphone right now.”
Diane froze. The color drained from her face so fast I thought she was going to faint into the gravel.
“What... what did you say?” Grant gasped.
“You’re on federal wire, Grant,” I said, taking a step toward them. For the first time in five years, they were the ones backing away from me. “Attempted extortion of an executive officer of a federally chartered corporation. Interstate commerce blackmail. And criminal possession of stolen medical and corporate records.”
“Caroline, no!” Grant screamed, lunging forward, his hands clawing for the phone.
Marcus stepped in instantly, catching Grant by the collar of his coat, spinning him around, and slamming him face-first onto the hood of his own Mercedes. The sound of metal groaning echoed through the fog.
“Hands on the vehicle, Mr. Holloway!” Marcus barked, wrenching Grant’s arm behind his back.
“Caroline! Please! Call them off! Call Keller off!” Grant shrieked, his face pressed against the cold, wet paint of the hood, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry! I’ll give you the Block Island shares! I’ll sign whatever you want! Don't call the feds! Please!”
Diane dropped the leather portfolio into the wet gravel. The photographs and papers scattered across the mud, soaked in dirty water. She sank to her knees beside the front tire, weeping into her trembling, manicured hands.
May you like
“Get off my property,” I said, looking down at the two of them with the cold indifference one reserves for vermin. “Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, you’re going to meet my lawyers at the Providence Financial Tower. If you’re one minute late, the FBI will be waiting at your front door.”
I turned on my heel and walked back toward the warm lights of Harbor House, leaving them sobbing in the rain.
