Chapter 11 - The Delivery of Truth
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Grant found the thick manila envelope sitting squarely on his desk three days later.
By then, Hawthorne Capital was heavily hemorrhaging cash. Major international banks had completely frozen him out of his accounts. Furious investors were demanding emergency zoom calls every hour. Angry suppliers were protesting in the glass lobby of his building. His own board of directors had already begun holding secret meetings without him.
The heavy envelope had no return address.
Grant tore it open with shaking, desperate hands, hoping it was a lifeline from a secret backer. Instead, a stack of glossy photographs spilled out.
The first photo was of Brooke sitting at a high-stakes baccarat table in Las Vegas, gambling with massive stacks of chips directly funded from Hawthorne corporate accounts. The second was a copy of wire transfers moving his money into offshore entities under her mother's maiden name. The third was a crystal-clear image of Brooke passionately kissing a younger, muscular man while leaning against the hood of the exact sports car Grant had bought for her last Christmas.
At the bottom of the envelope was a single, black USB flash drive.
Grant plugged it into his computer.
He watched the security footage of Brooke cutting the dress once.
Then, he watched it again.
By the third time it looped, his hands were trembling so violently that he knocked his wireless keyboard completely off the desk.
He watched Brooke cut the dress. He watched Brooke smile. He watched Brooke violently bruise her own arms. He watched Brooke practice her fake tears before walking out to falsely accuse my five-year-old daughter of vandalism.
The truth crawled into Grant’s arrogant mind like a slow-acting poison.
If Brooke was capable of lying so easily, so psychotically, about a dress... what else had she lied about?
The stolen money? The affairs?
The fire?
The life debt?
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He suddenly remembered the way Brooke had acted in the cellar. The fake tears. The way she conveniently covered the tiny scratch on his arm to distract him from Maisie’s bleeding head.
Grant grabbed his trash can and violently threw up his morning coffee.
