Chapter 6 - THE MEN WHO CAME FOR REBECCA’S EVIDENCE
Grant threw Maya to the floor before the second object came through the window.
Not a bullet.
A brick.
It struck the wall.
A note was wrapped around it.
Grant didn’t read it.
Not yet.
“Back door.”
Maya grabbed her backpack.
Two security men moved through the kitchen.
Grant followed.
They exited into a narrow yard.
A sedan waited in the alley.
“Go!”
One guard opened the door.
Maya climbed in.
Grant followed.
The vehicle accelerated.
Only after they were moving did Grant unwrap the note.
STOP DIGGING OR THE GIRL PAYS.
Maya read his face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Adult thing.”
“What adult thing?”
“Say nothing when it’s something.”
Grant almost laughed despite himself.
Then he handed her the note.
She read it.
Her face went pale.
“They know about me.”
“Yes.”
“Because of Mom?”
“Because they’re afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of what your mother left you.”
Maya held the flash drive.
Grant looked at it.
Rebecca had turned her daughter into an accidental custodian of evidence.
That frightened him.
“We need somewhere safe.”
Maya immediately said:
“No police foster place.”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Maya.”
“I’m not going with strangers.”
Grant looked at her.
“You barely know me.”
“You fed me.”
“That is a dangerously low standard.”
“You believed Mom.”
That stopped him.
Grant called Evelyn.
Then his attorney.
By evening, arrangements were made for Evelyn and Maya to stay temporarily at Grant’s Charleston residence under professional security while child welfare authorities assessed the situation.
Grant owned the house but rarely used it.
For the first time, it felt useful.
The flash drive was copied on isolated computers.
Rebecca’s files contained eight years of transactions.
Prescott.
Mercer.
Kessler.
Vane.
Melissa.
Others.
The theft totaled at least $18.7 million.
But money wasn’t the worst discovery.
Danielle pointed toward one spreadsheet.
“Look.”
Grant did.
Payments to inspectors.
Kickbacks.
Falsified safety certifications.
Grant’s face changed.
“What safety certifications?”
“Elevators. Fire suppression. Kitchen systems.”
The basement sprinklers.
“Jesus.”
“They weren’t just stealing.”
“No.”
“They were covering maintenance failures.”
Grant thought about guests.
Families.
Children sleeping forty floors above equipment that might never have been properly serviced.
This had crossed from fraud into danger.
“Call federal investigators.”
Danielle looked surprised.
“You’re ready?”
“Yes.”
“What about publicity?”
Grant stared.
“I don’t care.”
That was new.
A younger Grant would have cared deeply.
Brand.
Share price.
Reputation.
Now he thought of Maya outside asking for bread.
“Give them everything.”
By midnight, federal agents were involved.
Prescott still believed Grant was conducting an internal audit.
They wanted it that way.
The public statement about destroyed records went out.
Prescott called eleven minutes later.
“Grant.”
“William.”
“I heard about Charleston.”
“Yes.”
“Terrible.”
“Very.”
“Do they know how it started?”
“Not yet.”
“Records lost?”
“Most.”
Pause.
Grant smiled.
Prescott was trying not to sound relieved.
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to fly down?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“I can help.”
“I know.”
Grant looked through the glass toward federal agents reviewing Rebecca’s files.
“Stay in Atlanta.”
“All right.”
The call ended.
An agent named Sarah Mitchell approached.
“He took the bait?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
They monitored Prescott.
At 2:30 a.m., he accessed corporate vendor systems.
At 3:10, he transferred $2.4 million offshore.
At 3:22, he booked a private flight from Atlanta to Nassau.
At 3:40, federal agents arrested him before boarding.
Grant received the call at 4:03.
“Prescott is in custody.”
He closed his eyes.
Seventeen years.
Gone.
Not because William betrayed him in one moment.
Because Grant had spent years trusting systems more than people beneath them.
He walked into the kitchen.
Maya sat at the counter eating cereal.
“What are you doing awake?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“You walk loud.”
“I do not.”
“You do when mad.”
Grant sat opposite her.
“They arrested him.”
“Mr. W?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She ate another spoonful.
Grant watched her.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m fifty-one.”
“So?”
“I don’t have a bedtime.”
“You look like you need one.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
Maya smiled.
Then she became serious.
“Is it over?”
Grant wanted to say yes.
His phone rang.
Sarah Mitchell again.
He answered.
Her voice was tense.
“Grant, we have a problem.”
“What?”
“Prescott is talking.”
“That sounds like good news.”
“It would be.”
“What did he say?”
“He says Rebecca Carter discovered something bigger than the hotel fraud.”
Grant looked at Maya.
“What?”
“A property deal.”
“What property?”
“Waterfront land.”
Grant’s stomach tightened.
Sterling Harbor sat on some of Charleston’s most valuable waterfront real estate.
Sarah continued.
“Prescott claims Mercer and several investors planned to make Sterling Harbor financially unstable.”
“Why?”
“To force Holloway Hospitality to sell it.”
“To whom?”
“A development consortium.”
Grant understood.
Drive profits down.
Destroy guest satisfaction.
Inflate expenses.
Make the property appear troubled.
Then convince Grant to sell.
“And Prescott?”
“He would receive equity.”
“Who else?”
Sarah hesitated.
“He gave us a name.”
“Whose?”
“Your brother.”
Grant stopped breathing.
“Excuse me?”
“Andrew Holloway.”
The kitchen disappeared around him.
His younger brother.
Board member.
Shareholder.
Family.
Maya stared.
Grant whispered:
“Say that again.”
Sarah did.
May you like
And for the second time in forty-eight hours, Grant learned that the deepest betrayal was not coming from his hotel.
It was coming from his own table.
