Chapter 6 - The Fire in the West Wing
Grant saved his mother.
That mattered.
Whatever else I believed about him, I would not erase that.
He had been allowed into Blackwood House with counsel to retrieve personal items.
When smoke filled the west corridor, he heard Eleanor shouting inside Charles's old library.
The door had jammed.
Grant broke it open.
He dragged her through the hall.
Both suffered smoke inhalation.
Grant burned his left hand badly.
Eleanor was hospitalized overnight.
The fire destroyed part of the library.
It also created a new criminal problem.
Possible evidence destruction.
When I heard, my first reaction was horror.
My second was anger.
My third was something uglier.
Relief that Grant was alive.
Divorce doesn't shut off the nervous system.
I hated that.
Rebecca told me it was normal.
I hated that too.
Grant sent one message through his lawyer:
Mother is safe. I am safe. You don't need to respond.
That last sentence mattered.
For once, he didn't demand.
I didn't respond.
The investigation accelerated.
Edward Harrow was indicted.
So were two executives at Wexler.
Grant entered negotiations.
Eleanor faced potential obstruction charges related to the fire, although her attorney argued she had experienced an emotional crisis and had not intended to destroy evidence.
Then the person who forged Hale's signature was identified.
Grant's executive assistant.
Melissa Crane.
She admitted Grant instructed her to recreate it.
There was no ambiguity left.
Grant had lied to me.
Again.
When Rebecca told me, I felt strangely calm.
“Did he admit it?”
“After Melissa cooperated.”
Of course.
That evening, I drove to the lake house.
Under the prenup, it was likely to become mine.
It had been the only Mercer property I ever loved.
Small by their standards.
Four bedrooms.
Wood siding.
A dock.
No ballroom.
No portraits.
Grant and I had been happy there once.
I sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket.
Then headlights appeared.
My body tensed.
Grant stepped from a car.
His left hand was bandaged.
I stood.
“What are you doing here?”
He stopped far away.
“My attorney said you were here.”
“That's inappropriate.”
“I know.”
“Then leave.”
“I will.”
He looked exhausted.
“I needed five minutes.”
“You have two.”
Grant almost smiled.
“Fair.”
He stayed at the bottom of the steps.
“I ordered Melissa to copy Hale's signature.”
“I know.”
“I told myself his office had verbally approved the meeting.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Harrow needed protection.”
“Why did you protect him?”
“Because I thought he could destroy us.”
“He did.”
Grant nodded.
“I know.”
The lake moved quietly behind us.
“Why the uniform?”
He looked confused.
“What?”
“That night.”
“Mara—”
“No. I understand the fraud better than I understand that.”
His face filled with shame.
“Mother suggested it.”
Of course.
“Why?”
“She said Hale needed to see that our household was disciplined.”
I stared.
“What does that even mean?”
“It sounds insane now.”
“It was insane then.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“Mother believed powerful men respected men who controlled their homes.”
My stomach turned.
“And you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“Did Hale ask for it?”
“No.”
“Did any guest?”
“No.”
“So I was humiliated because you wanted to impress men who never requested it.”
Grant looked down.
“Yes.”
That hurt in a new way.
“I thought it was funny at first.”
He continued.
“Then you objected.”
“And?”
“And I felt challenged.”
There.
Honesty.
“I wanted to prove you would do it anyway.”
My eyes filled.
“Why?”
“Because I was losing control everywhere else.”
The contracts.
Harrow.
Debt.
His mother.
Investigators.
“So you controlled me.”
“Yes.”
No excuse.
Just yes.
I cried.
Grant cried too.
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
He looked up.
“Does that mean anything?”
“Yes.”
Hope appeared.
I stopped it.
“It means I believe you're sorry.”
His face fell.
“It doesn't mean I'm staying.”
“I know.”
For once, he actually did.
Grant looked toward the lake.
“I've accepted a plea agreement.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“Conspiracy. Procurement fraud. False records.”
“Prison?”
“Probably.”
“How long?”
“Guidelines are complicated.”
“Grant.”
“Several years.”
I sat.
He remained standing.
“Mother?”
“Still fighting.”
“Harrow?”
“Going to trial.”
I nodded.
Then Grant said:
“I gave them everything.”
“What does everything mean?”
“My father's records.”
“Harrow.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother?”
His face broke.
“Yes.”
That cost him.
Eleanor had built Grant's understanding of family around loyalty.
Now truth required betraying that definition.
“I told them what she knew.”
“Good.”
He flinched.
I didn't apologize.
Grant looked at his bandaged hand.
“I spent my entire life thinking protecting the family meant preventing outsiders from seeing what we did.”
I waited.
“I never asked whether what we were doing deserved protection.”
That was probably the first intelligent thing anyone in the Mercer family had said about loyalty.
He looked at me.
“I'm not asking you to wait.”
“Good.”
“I'm not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I want you to know I'm going to plead guilty.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because for once, I wanted you to hear the truth before someone forced me to say it.”
That landed.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
Grant smiled sadly.
“Two minutes?”
“Long gone.”
“I figured.”
He turned.
“Grant.”
He stopped.
“I don't hate you.”
His shoulders dropped.
That was not forgiveness.
Not reconciliation.
Just truth.
“I hate what you did.”
He nodded.
“I do too.”
Then he left.
I watched the taillights disappear.
Three weeks later, Grant Mercer stood in federal court and pleaded guilty.
Mercer Holdings collapsed under debt and canceled contracts.
Several divisions were sold.
Blackwood House entered foreclosure proceedings.
The family foundation's board removed Eleanor.
Newspapers called it the fall of an American dynasty.
I called it consequences.
But consequences weren't the end.
May you like
They were only the clearing after the explosion.
The question was what any of us would build in the empty space.
