Chapter 2 - The Men at My Door"Grant Keaton? We need to speak with you."
"If this is about my wife's accusations, you can contact my attorney."
"This isn't about accusations, Mr. Keaton. It's about evidence."
I opened the front door expecting a process server.
Instead, two investigators stood beneath the portico.
The older man introduced himself as Daniel Reeves, a forensic investigator working with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation's financial crimes unit. The younger woman, Special Agent Laura Bennett, held a leather folder.
They showed their credentials.
Neither smiled.
"May we come inside?" Reeves asked.
"Do you have a warrant?"
"No."
"Then this conversation happens here."
Reeves glanced past me into the empty house.
"That is your choice."
He explained that their unit was assisting prosecutors in reviewing suspected financial crimes involving Keaton Development Holdings and several related businesses.
I tried to sound offended.
"My company is one of the largest redevelopment firms in Tennessee. We process hundreds of transactions."
"We're aware."
"Then you understand that complicated transactions aren't necessarily criminal."
"Absolutely," Bennett said.
Her calmness unnerved me more than an accusation would have.
"That's why we're examining the supporting documents."
She opened her folder.
The first page contained a reproduction of an investment authorization.
Corinne's signature appeared at the bottom.
I recognized it immediately.
A signature I had placed there myself.
Three years earlier, Keaton Development had been struggling to secure financing for a luxury riverfront project. Several lenders wanted more collateral than Marcus and I could provide.
Corinne's trust had seemed like the answer.
I told myself the money wasn't being stolen.
It was being borrowed.
The project would succeed.
The investment would generate enough profit to repay everything.
And Corinne would never have to know.
That had been my first mistake.
My second was discovering how easy deception became after the first successful lie.
"Do you recognize this document?" Bennett asked.
"It appears to be an investment agreement."
"Did your wife sign it?"
"I'd need to review the original."
"That's an interesting answer."
"Why?"
"Because the document was witnessed by a notary who died six months before the date appearing on the agreement."
I stared at her.
A terrible memory returned.
Marcus had arranged the paperwork.
He told me everything was handled.
I had never asked how.
"Perhaps there was an administrative error," I said.
"Perhaps," Bennett replied.
Reeves studied my expression.
"Mr. Keaton, we are not here to argue with you on your doorstep. We wanted to give you the opportunity to arrange an interview through counsel."
"Then consider this conversation over."
He nodded.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"Have you spoken with your business partner since returning?"
I hesitated.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Just now."
Bennett made a note.
"What did you discuss?"
"Business."
Reeves looked at me for a long moment.
"Your partner has retained criminal defense counsel."
That surprised me.
Marcus never made a major decision without consulting me.
And hiring a criminal attorney was a very major decision.
"Am I under arrest?" I asked.
"No."
"Then I have nothing else to say."
I closed the door.
Only when the lock clicked did I realize my hands were shaking.
For a long time, I stood there listening to the retreating footsteps.
Then my phone rang.
Tessa.
I nearly rejected the call.
Instead, I answered.
"Grant, sweetheart. Did you get home?"
Her voice was light and affectionate.
The same voice that had entertained me for nine days while my wife was preparing to leave me.
"Yes."
"How did it go?"
"Corinne's gone."
A pause.
"Gone where?"
"I don't know."
"Oh."
There was something strange in the way she said it.
Not shock.
Not concern.
Almost relief.
"She took Owen," I continued.
"Well, babies usually stay with their mothers."
I closed my eyes.
"That's my son."
"Of course he is."
I heard music in the background.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"At lunch."
"With whom?"
"Some friends."
"Which friends?"
She laughed nervously.
"Grant, what's wrong with you?"
I looked down at Corinne's documents.
Then I asked a question I had never thought to ask before.
"Tessa, how much do you know about my company's finances?"
The music seemed to grow quieter.
"Why would I know anything?"
"Because several payments were made to a company called Vaughan Strategic Consulting."
Silence.
"Grant—"
"Vaughan. With an extra A."
"That's a common surname."
"Your last name is Vaughn."
"Are you accusing me of something?"
"I'm asking you a question."
Her tone hardened.
"You're upset about Corinne, and now you're looking for someone to blame."
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I turned to another document.
A payment authorization for $740,000.
The recipient was Vaughan Strategic Consulting LLC.
The transfer had been approved by Marcus.
But the supporting invoice contained my electronic approval.
And the date was just three weeks earlier.
"Tessa, did Marcus ever give you money?"
She inhaled sharply.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Answer me."
Another silence.
Then she said:
"Grant, you need to stop asking questions over the phone."
My pulse quickened.
"What?"
"Come to my apartment tonight."
"Why?"
"Because there are things you don't understand."
"What things?"
She hesitated.
"Things Marcus never told you."
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
Five minutes later, a message arrived from an unknown number.
It contained one photograph.
Corinne, standing outside a medical clinic, holding Owen in his car seat.
The photograph had been taken that morning.
May you like
Beneath it were seven words.
Your wife isn't as safe as she thinks.
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