Chapter 6 - The Last Thing Grant Wanted
Clare remembered very little about the next two minutes in order.
She remembered screaming.
She remembered the first fire engine tearing across the gravel.
She remembered trying to run toward the boathouse and a firefighter catching her around the waist.
“There is someone inside!”
“We know.”
“He went through that door.”
“Ma'am, stay back.”
“His name is Alexander Hayes!”
Two firefighters disappeared into smoke.
Clare stood barefoot in wet grass, shaking.
The roof collapsed further.
She couldn't breathe.
Not because of smoke.
Because she had known Alexander for less than forty-eight hours and the thought of him dying had suddenly become unbearable.
A firefighter appeared.
Then another.
Between them was Alexander.
Alive.
Clare's knees nearly failed.
He was coughing violently, one sleeve burned through near the shoulder, his face blackened with soot.
But he was walking.
“Idiot.”
The word escaped her like a sob.
Alexander looked at her.
“You sound happy to see me.”
She hit him in the chest.
Not hard.
Then grabbed him.
His arms closed around her automatically.
“You absolute idiot.”
“I found the box.”
She pulled back.
“I'm going to kill you myself.”
“Seems inefficient after the fire.”
A paramedic forced him to sit.
He had minor burns on one arm and smoke inhalation but refused transport until the fire marshal arrived.
The metal document box had survived.
Barely.
Its exterior was black.
Inside, protected by fire-resistant lining, were copies of the old ownership agreements, correspondence from Grant's father and something Alexander had forgotten existed.
A notarized letter.
Thomas Hayes had written it two weeks after selling his share.
The letter thanked Alexander for arranging payment early because Thomas needed money for medical treatment.
It specifically stated that he understood the transfer, had discussed it with independent counsel and considered the amount fair.
Grant's capacity claim was collapsing.
Deputy Morales read the letter.
“Well.”
Alexander coughed.
“That's a legal term?”
“It's the polite version.”
The fire marshal found traces of accelerant along the boathouse's rear wall before midnight.
Arson.
Grant didn't answer his phone.
His truck disappeared from the motel where he had been staying.
By morning, police were looking for him.
Clare should have left.
Her motel room was ready.
Shoreline Stays offered her a refund, a free future week and enough apologetic emails to fill a novel.
Instead she stayed.
Alexander found her making coffee at seven.
“You're still here.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I thought your room opened today.”
“It did.”
“And?”
“And your cousin set fire to your building.”
“Allegedly.”
She looked at him.
“Don't become Ryan.”
That ended the legal caution.
Alexander sat.
His arm was bandaged.
Clare put coffee in front of him.
“What happens now?”
“Court at eleven.”
“Can Grant's injunction still proceed if he's missing?”
“His attorney can appear.”
“Can I come?”
“You're on vacation.”
“I stopped being on vacation approximately when a stranger asked why I was drinking from his dead mother's glass.”
Alexander smiled.
His phone rang.
Ryan.
He looked at Clare.
She sighed.
“Answer it.”
Ryan was waiting outside twenty minutes later.
This time he carried no Blackwell folder.
Only a laptop bag.
Morales arrived at the same time.
Ryan looked as though he had not slept.
“I resigned this morning.”
Clare blinked.
“From the firm?”
“Yes.”
Alexander leaned against the porch column.
“Congratulations?”
Ryan accepted the insult.
“I found emails.”
Morales stepped closer.
“What emails?”
“Blackwell executives knew Grant intended to manufacture pressure around the title challenge.”
Alexander's face hardened.
Ryan removed his laptop.
“They discussed using the old rental account to establish unauthorized commercial use.”
Clare stared at him.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Your firm?”
“One partner did.”
“Which one?”
“Dean.”
Ryan opened the files.
Grant had sent emails proposing several tactics.
Reactivating Shoreline access.
Creating a guest complaint.
Triggering insurance questions.
Forcing Alexander to spend money defending title defects.
Blackwell's vice president had replied:
Apply lawful pressure. Do not involve Blackwell directly.
“Lawful,” Alexander repeated.
Ryan nodded.
“They'll argue that was the limit.”
“And the break-in?”
“No reference.”
“The fire?”
“None.”
Clare believed him.
She hated that she still knew when Ryan was lying.
This time, he wasn't.
Ryan looked at her.
“I gave Morales everything.”
“Why?”
“Because I spent the last eight months explaining my choices instead of taking responsibility for them.”
Clare said nothing.
Ryan looked down.
“I didn't come here to ask you back.”
That surprised her.
“I finally understand that saying I love you doesn't obligate you to forgive me.”
Clare swallowed.
There had been a time when hearing that would have shattered her.
Now it mostly made her tired.
“I did love you,” she said.
“I know.”
“But that's not the same as belonging together.”
Ryan nodded.
“No.”
He looked toward Alexander.
Then back at Clare.
“I hope you find what you came here for.”
She almost smiled.
“I came here to be alone.”
Ryan managed a faint laugh.
“Then I hope you find something better.”
For once, he left without asking anything from her.
At court, Grant's attorney tried to proceed.
Then Alexander's lawyer produced Thomas Hayes's notarized letter.
Ryan's emails followed.
The judge denied the emergency injunction and referred questions regarding the manufactured rental activity to law enforcement.
Blackwell suspended its acquisition attempt before lunch.
It should have felt finished.
It didn't.
Grant was still missing.
Morales warned Alexander not to return home alone.
They returned together anyway.
Clare packed her suitcase that afternoon.
Not because she wanted to leave.
Because suddenly staying meant something else.
She found Alexander on the back porch looking toward the sea.
“My motel room exists now.”
“So I've heard.”
“I should use it.”
He nodded.
Neither moved.
Clare hated how disappointing his agreement felt.
“I don't know what this is,” she said.
Alexander looked at her.
“Neither do I.”
“I live in Boston.”
“I live here.”
“I canceled a wedding three months ago.”
“I noticed the ex-fiancé.”
She smiled faintly.
“I don't want to use you to prove I'm over him.”
“And I don't want you staying because my life became interesting.”
“That is not the word I'd use.”
He stepped closer.
“Then go to the motel.”
Clare's chest tightened.
Alexander touched her cheek.
“Go because you should choose where you sleep without a storm or a rental company or me making the decision for you.”
That was the most attractive thing anyone had said to her in years.
She kissed him.
Then picked up her suitcase.
“I'll call you.”
“I hope so.”
Clare drove away before she could change her mind.
The motel was small, clean and profoundly boring.
Exactly what she had originally wanted.
She showered.
Ordered takeout.
Opened a book.
Read the same sentence six times.
At nine thirty, someone knocked.
Clare's heart jumped stupidly.
Maybe Alexander.
She walked to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Front desk.”
She checked the peephole.
No one stood directly outside.
A bad feeling moved through her.
Clare backed away.
Her phone rang.
Alexander.
She answered immediately.
“Hey.”
“Lock your door.”
She already had.
“What happened?”
“Morales found Grant's truck.”
“Where?”
“Behind your motel.”
Clare's blood turned cold.
A shadow moved beneath the door.
“Alexander.”
“Clare?”
The handle slowly turned.
Someone tested the lock.
Once.
Twice.
Clare backed toward the bathroom.
“Someone's outside.”
“Get away from the door.”
The knocking came again.
Harder.
“Clare Bennett.”
Grant's voice.
She stopped breathing.
“Open the door.”
Alexander heard him through the phone.
“Do not open it. Police are coming.”
Grant knocked again.
“I just want the files.”
Clare's eyes moved to her laptop bag.
Ryan had given her a backup copy of the Blackwell emails after court.
Grant knew.
“Clare,” Alexander said. “Stay with me.”
The door suddenly shuddered under a violent impact.
Grant hit it again.
The chain stretched.
A third blow cracked the frame.
Clare ran toward the bathroom.
The front door burst inward.
Grant stepped into the room.
He held a tire iron in one hand.
His face was wet with rain.
His eyes found Clare.
Then the laptop bag.
“Give me the computer.”
Through her phone, Alexander shouted her name.
May you like
Grant closed the broken door behind him.
And smiled.
