Wendy drove past downtown Greenwich. Then she passed roads I recognized. Then she entered an industrial district where there were no parks, no shops, and absolutely no reason to bring a seven-year-old child.
Her SUV finally stopped behind a windowless brick building. I parked half a block away and watched Wendy lead Fiona toward a steel door.
Then the door opened. A man stepped outside.
And the instant I saw his face, my hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Because according to my wife, that man had been dead for eight years. PART 2
The man standing at the steel door was Arthur Vance.
Jessi’s father. My daughter’s grandfather.
Eight years earlier, I had stood beside Jessi at his funeral while Wendy sobbed over an empty-looking mahogany coffin. Yet Arthur was alive. And Wendy had been secretly bringing Fiona to him.
I waited until the door shut, then crossed the street.
Through a narrow side window, I saw Fiona sitting at a table as Arthur placed several photographs in front of her.
“Which man came to your house last Thursday?” he asked.
Fiona pointed hesitantly.
My blood ran cold. These weren’t family photographs. They showed me, my business partners, my security chief—and men I recognized from confidential acquisition meetings.
Wendy stood behind Fiona. “Remember what Grandma taught you,” she said softly.
I reached for my phone. Then Arthur said something that stopped me.
“Does your father still keep the silver key in his office?”
Fiona nodded.
My silver key opened a private safe containing documents connected to the Chicago acquisition. This wasn’t some bizarre family reunion. They were using my daughter to collect information. I stepped away from the window and called my security director. “Lock my office. Nobody enters.”
A pause. “Sir… someone already did.”
My stomach dropped. “When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
