PART 4
Grant didn’t answer.
Not immediately.
He simply stared at me.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then he laughed.
It wasn’t a natural laugh.
It was the kind people make when they’re buying themselves time.
“Vanessa?”
I nodded.
“Yes. Vanessa.”
His eyes shifted toward the kitchen window.
“Why are you asking me about her at four in the morning?”
“Because Paige sent me a video.”
His face changed.
Barely.
But this time I was watching for it.
“I saw you with her at Little Pines.”
Grant’s mouth opened slightly.
Then closed.
“You were there that morning,” I continued.
He swallowed.
“Nat, I told you—”
“You told me you brought Lucy to daycare alone.”
“I did.”
“No.”
My voice shook.
“But the camera shows Vanessa.”
He stared at me.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you lied.”
His expression hardened.
“You’re grieving.”
There it was.
The sentence he had used whenever I questioned anything.
“You aren’t thinking clearly.”
I felt something inside me become strangely calm.
Five days ago, those words would have destroyed me.
Tonight, they made me angry.
“I’m thinking more clearly than I have all week.”
Grant stepped closer.
“Nat, you just lost our daughter.”
“I know.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you know exactly what happened to Lucy.”
He froze.
The kitchen suddenly felt silent.
Then he whispered,
“How could you say that?”
I didn’t answer.
He looked toward the hallway.
Then back at me.
“You think I killed our daughter?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
His voice cracked.
For a moment, he looked exactly like the grieving father everyone believed he was.
Then I remembered the video.
The silver packet.
The trash can.
Vanessa.
The protein drink.
The blue thread.
And Daniel’s voice.
There were two injectors documented when we arrived.
I stared at Grant.
“Where was Lucy’s second injector?”
He didn’t respond.
“Grant.”
“I don’t know.”
“You were with her.”
“I told you, I panicked.”
“You told me it was empty.”
“I thought it was.”
“You threw away her backpack.”
“I thought it was contaminated.”
“You cleaned the kitchen before I came home.”
“Because I couldn’t stand looking at it.”
“You’ve had an answer for everything.”
He rubbed his face.
“Because I’m trying to survive this too.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I am.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You aren’t.”
Grant suddenly slammed his palm against the counter.
“Enough!”
I flinched.
He immediately lowered his voice.
“Sorry.”
I stared at him.
He looked at his hand as if surprised by his own anger.
Then he said quietly,
“You need sleep.”
“No.”
“You haven’t eaten properly.”
“No.”
“You need help.”
“I need the truth.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Some truths won’t bring Lucy back.”
I felt my heart stop.
It was such an innocent sentence.
Such a reasonable sentence.
But something about it sounded like a warning.
I took one step backward.
Grant noticed.
“Nat?”
“I’m going upstairs.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I walked past him.
But I didn’t go upstairs.
I went into the small office beside the kitchen.
I closed the door.
Locked it.
Then I sat behind Grant’s desk.
This was his private space.
He always told me there was nothing interesting inside.
Tax records.
Business documents.
Old contracts.
Nothing I needed to worry about.
Tonight, I opened every drawer.
The first two contained ordinary paperwork.
The third contained receipts.
The fourth contained pens and cables.
Then I noticed the bottom drawer was locked.
I searched the desk.
No key.
I looked at the bookshelf.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the way Grant had reacted when I mentioned Vanessa.
Not anger.
Fear.
I opened his laptop.
Password protected.
I knew the password.
Or I thought I did.
I typed Lucy’s birthday.
Wrong.
Our wedding anniversary.
Wrong.
His mother’s birthday.
Wrong.
I stopped.
Then tried the date Lucy died.
The screen opened.
I stared at it.
Grant had changed his password after Lucy died.
To the date of her death.
My stomach twisted.
I opened his email.
Thousands of messages.
Work.
Bills.
Insurance.
Nothing.
Then I searched one word.
Vanessa.
Twenty-seven results.
I clicked the newest.
It was from three days before Lucy died.
The subject line was:
We need to stop.
The message contained only one sentence.
You promised me she wouldn’t be involved.
My hands began shaking.
I clicked the reply.
Grant had written:
She won’t know anything. Just follow the plan.
I covered my mouth.
I kept reading.
The next email was from Vanessa.
What about Lucy?
Grant’s response:
I’ll handle Lucy.
I stopped.
The room blurred.
I couldn’t breathe.
I scrolled.
There were no more replies.
Then I saw an attachment.
A PDF.
I opened it.
It was a daycare authorization form.
Lucy was listed as the child.
Grant’s name appeared under emergency contact.
But beneath it was another name.
Vanessa Reed — Authorized pickup.
The authorization date was six weeks earlier.
I had never signed it.
I stared at the screen.
My daughter had been taken out of daycare by Vanessa before.
Without my knowledge.
I kept scrolling.
Another email.
Another attachment.
Then a photo.
It showed Vanessa standing beside Lucy.
They were outside a grocery store.
Lucy wasn’t smiling.
Her little hand was gripping Vanessa’s sleeve.
I zoomed in.
Lucy was holding something.
A small blue toy.
No.
Not a toy.
A bracelet.
Blue fabric.
My heart began pounding.
The same color as the thread Daniel had found in Lucy’s hand.
I saved the photo to my phone.
Then I heard the office door handle move.
I nearly dropped the laptop.
“Nat?”
Grant.
I closed the email.
“One second.”
The handle stopped moving.
“Why did you lock the door?”
I looked around.
“Because I needed privacy.”
Silence.
Then:
“Open the door.”
I didn’t move.
“Nat.”
His voice was different now.
Not gentle.
Not grieving.
Controlled.
“Open the door.”
I opened the laptop again.
The screen showed another email.
This one had been sent two months earlier.
From Vanessa.
She knows about the allergy. We have to be careful.
Grant replied:
