Chapter 5 - WHAT CELESTE CHOSE TO HIDE
Blake spoke first.
“What?”
Celeste turned toward her son.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He stepped into the kitchen.
“You don’t get to say that and then say you’re sorry.”
Grant was gone.
His car had disappeared while Marianne and I were at the storage facility.
For once, I was grateful.
Because if he had been standing in that kitchen, I might have done something stupid enough to ruin everything.
I sat across from Celeste.
“Start talking.”
She stared at the table.
“About eighteen months ago, Blake needed help.”
Blake’s face hardened.
“Don’t.”
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t get to make this about me.”
Celeste swallowed.
“You had just finished treatment.”
I looked at Blake.
He stared at the floor.
I had known he disappeared for nearly three months the year before.
Celeste told everyone he was traveling.
He had actually been in a residential treatment program.
Blake gave a humorless laugh.
“There. Everybody knows. Congratulations.”
Celeste continued.
“Insurance didn’t cover everything. I panicked.”
“How much?” Marianne asked.
“Ninety-two thousand.”
My stomach tightened.
“Dad wouldn’t help?”
“I never asked him.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“Pride.”
Celeste finally looked at me.
“And because I had spent years pretending I didn’t need anything from him.”
So she went to Grant.
Her brother told her he could temporarily move money from one of my father’s business accounts.
Celeste signed paperwork.
She told herself it was a loan.
She intended to repay it.
Grant moved the money.
Then he kept moving money.
More companies appeared.
More signatures.
More transfers.
By the time Celeste understood what he had created, her original ninety-two thousand dollars had become the doorway through which Grant stole hundreds of thousands more.
“He used my signature to make later transfers look legitimate.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Eventually.”
“And Mom?”
“Yes.”
I remembered the diner photograph.
SHE AGREED TO HELP.
Celeste wiped her palms against her skirt.
“Richard told me if I helped him document everything, he would tell investigators the truth about my involvement.”
Blake leaned against the counter.
“You were going to turn Uncle Grant in.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Celeste looked at me.
“Because Grant found out.”
The night my parents died, my father and mother arranged to meet Celeste in the Harrison Center garage.
They chose the garage because it was near my father’s office and because my mother believed Grant was following her.
Celeste never arrived.
“Grant came here at ten-oh-seven,” she said.
“He was soaked from the rain.”
“What did he say?”
“That Richard had finally pushed too far.”
My throat tightened.
“And the blood?”
“A small amount. On his cuff.”
“You knew.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“I suspected.”
“That is not better.”
“I know.”
She closed her eyes.
“He told me Richard had attacked him.”
“My father?”
“I didn’t believe that part.”
“But you believed enough to protect Grant.”
“I believed Blake was in danger.”
Blake straightened.
“What?”
Grant had placed Blake’s name on B.R. Consulting.
He had used Blake’s signature on several corporate forms.
If the theft was discovered, Blake would appear to be part of it.
Grant told Celeste that if she went to the police, he would make certain Blake went down with him.
“So you went to the storage unit.”
“Yes.”
“To get the blue folder.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do with it?”
Celeste hesitated.
Blake laughed bitterly.
“Here comes another lie.”
“I brought it home.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Grant took it.”
The front of the house suddenly filled with noise.
A diesel engine.
Doors slamming.
We went outside.
A moving truck had pulled into the driveway.
Two men were carrying my father’s dining chairs toward it.
“What the hell?”
One of them stopped.
“Estate removal.”
“There is no estate removal.”
A second man appeared carrying a box from my father’s study.
I stepped in front of him.
“Put that down.”
“Ma’am, we were hired—”
“By someone who does not own this house.”
Celeste whispered behind me.
“Grant.”
He was emptying the house.
Documents.
Furniture.
Anything that might contain evidence.
Blake moved faster than I did.
He grabbed the box from the worker.
“Everybody stop.”
The men looked at one another.
Marianne calmly produced the property information from her bag.
Ten minutes later, the truck left empty.
Blake carried the box back into the study.
He didn’t speak.
Then he disappeared upstairs.
When he returned, he was holding his laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done yesterday.”
He opened the security system.
“I backed up the cameras because I didn’t want Mom finding videos of me sneaking out.”
Celeste gave him a look.
He ignored her.
“I have older footage.”
“How old?”
“A year.”
He searched.
Tuesday.
The night my parents died.
Front camera.
10:07 P.M.
Grant walked into frame.
He wore a dark overcoat.
Rain ran from his shoulders.
His left cuff looked darker than the rest.
Then he turned.
Under his arm was something blue.
A folder.
Celeste covered her mouth.
Blake paused the frame.
For once, there was no cruelty in his face.
Only horror.
“Mom.”
She said nothing.
“You told us you removed the blue folder at ten-thirty-eight.”
“I thought I did.”
“Then what is that?”
Celeste stared at the screen.
Marianne answered.
“A second folder.”
My father had made copies.
Which meant Celeste had removed one set of evidence from storage.
Grant had taken another directly from somewhere else.
Possibly from my father.
Possibly after killing him.
Blake closed his eyes.
“I remember that coat.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Not Grant’s.”
He pointed at the screen.
“That belongs to Richard.”
My father.
Blake looked toward the hallway closet.
“He left it here all the time.”
Then his expression changed.
“Wait.”
He ran.
We followed.
The closet door flew open.
Three coats.
A rain jacket.
An empty wooden hanger.
Blake shoved his hand behind them.
Nothing.
Then he looked down at an old garment bag.
“That’s it.”
Inside was my father’s winter coat.
Blake ran his fingers along the lining.
He stopped.
“There’s something in here.”
The seam had been cut and roughly stitched closed again.
I found scissors.
One careful cut.
Then another.
Something blue slid into my hands.
The folder.
I opened it.
The first page contained my father’s handwriting.
May you like
One sentence had been underlined twice.
IF THIS FILE IS FOUND AFTER MY DEATH, DO NOT ASSUME CELESTE KILLED ME.
