Chapter 7 - The Paper Trail of Blood
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Grant walked directly to the north wall of Julian’s office, where an enormous oil painting of Charles Holloway hung in an ornate gold frame.
Grant stared into the painted eyes of his late father for several long seconds.
“You built an empire, Dad,” Grant murmured bitterly.
“And you let snakes guard the gates.”
Grant gripped both sides of the heavy frame and swung the painting outward on its hidden brass hinges.
Behind it sat an industrial-grade digital safe, recessed deeply into the reinforced concrete wall.
“Do you know the combination?” Mia asked, stepping closer to the safe.
“Julian changed it every six months,” Grant said, shaking his head.
“He told the board it was for cybersecurity compliance.”
Grant looked back at me.
“Rachel, call Frank from corporate maintenance.”
“Tell him to bring the commercial hydraulic rotary drill from the basement shop.”
“Tell him if he gets here in ten minutes, there’s a ten-thousand-dollar bonus in his bank account tomorrow morning.”
“I’m on it,” I said, pulling out my phone and dialing the maintenance supervisor immediately.
Eight minutes later, Frank rushed through the double doors, carrying a heavy metal case and wearing protective safety goggles.
He didn't ask questions.
He had worked for Grant long enough to know that when the founder gave an order in the middle of the night, you simply executed it.
Within fifteen minutes, the screeching whine of the diamond-tipped rotary drill pierced the quiet of the tower.
Sparks showered onto the drop cloth Frank had laid across the Persian rug.
With a sharp metallic snap, the heavy locking bolts disengaged.
Frank stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“She’s open, Mr. Holloway,” Frank said, packing his gear quietly.
“Thank you, Frank,” Grant said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Rachel will handle the wire transfer first thing in the morning.”
Frank nodded respectfully and exited the suite, closing the heavy doors behind him.
Grant slowly pulled open the heavy steel door of the safe.
Inside were neat stacks of bearer bonds, several velvet jewelry boxes, and three thick leather-bound ledgers.
Grant pulled the ledgers out and set them onto the desk.
Mia gasped softly, pointing to a small, worn cardboard shoebox tucked in the very back of the safe.
Across the lid, written in faded black marker, was a single word:
CARTER.
Grant’s hands shook as he reached in and pulled the box into the light.
He lifted the lid.
Inside lay dozens of unopened letters, their edges yellowed by twenty years of darkness.
Every single envelope was addressed in Grant’s own handwriting to Rebecca Carter.
“My letters,” Grant whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.
“He never returned them to sender.”
“He intercepted them from my father’s mailroom and kept them as trophies.”
Mia reached into the box and lifted a small silver cassette tape that sat beneath the letters.
Attached to the cassette was a handwritten note in Julian’s unmistakable cursive script:
Monroe leverage — Hospital confrontation recording, August 2008.
Mia looked up at Grant, her eyes wide with shock.
“Grant,” Mia whispered.
May you like
“Julian didn't just threaten my mother.”
“He recorded it.”
