Chapter 5
Becca sat at Aunt Helen’s kitchen table for two hours, telling us everything.
How Grant had pursued her at work, sending her flowers, taking her to fancy dinners, telling her his marriage was over.
How he’d given her the dress three weeks before the funeral, saying he wanted her to have something nice to wear to “a family event.”
How he’d told her my father had liked her, that he’d be happy to see her there.
How she’d found out the truth only when Mr. Blackwood read the will.
How she’d run out of the house screaming at Grant when he admitted he’d lied about everything.
She showed us text messages.
Emails.
Voicemails he’d left her, talking about how we’d be “out of the way” soon, how we’d have the whole company to ourselves.
Aunt Helen took notes.
I sat there, quiet, listening to every word, every detail of the plan Grant had made to destroy me.
When she finished, Becca looked at me.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I am. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
I believed her.
Not because I trusted her.
But because I could see the fear in her eyes.
The same fear I’d felt when I read that letter in Grant’s nightstand.
She’d been played too.
Not as badly as me, not by a long shot.
But played all the same.
“Mr. Blackwood will be in touch,” I said.
“Testify against Grant. Tell the police everything you told us. And then stay out of my life. Forever.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
She left.
Aunt Helen folded her notes and set them on the table.
“She’s telling the truth,” she said.
“Scared people don’t lie that well.”
I nodded.
I felt empty.
Tired.
Like I’d been running for years and finally stopped.
The next few weeks passed in a blur.
I worked with Mr. Blackwood to build the case against Grant.
I went to the police station and gave a statement.
I went through every bank record, every email, every piece of evidence my father had collected.
I learned more about Grant’s lies than I ever wanted to know.
How he’d siphoned money from the company into secret accounts.
How he’d planned to use that money to buy a house in another state with Becca.
How he’d even talked to a doctor, a friend of his, about signing papers to have me committed.
The more I learned, the angrier I got.
But the anger didn’t break me.
It fueled me.
I stopped crying over him.
I stopped asking “why.”
I started focusing on what came next.
I went back to the foundation my father had started.
The one that built schools for kids in poor neighborhoods.
I threw myself into the work.
For the first time in years, I felt like I was doing something that mattered.
Something that was mine.
Something Grant couldn’t touch.
I got the Versace dress back a month later.
It looked perfect.
The crystals sparkled like new.
There was no trace of Becca, no trace of the funeral, no trace of the worst day of my life.
I hung it in the closet at Aunt Helen’s house, right where I could see it.
It didn’t feel like armor anymore.
It felt like a reminder.
Of how strong I was.
Of how much my father had loved me.
Grant tried to contact me a dozen more times.
Texts, calls, letters.
Begging, threatening, apologizing.
I never answered.
I sent everything straight to Mr. Blackwood.
His lawyer tried to make a deal.
Said Grant would plead guilty to a lesser charge, pay back half the money, do community service, if we dropped the rest.
I said no.
“He stole two million dollars,” I told Mr. Blackwood.
“He planned to lock me in a mental hospital. He humiliated me at my father’s funeral. Lesser charge? No. He gets what he deserves.”
The preliminary hearing was set for October.
I was nervous.
I knew I’d have to face Grant in court.
I knew he’d try to paint me as unstable, as grieving, as someone who’d made the whole thing up.
But I had the evidence.
I had my father’s files.
I had Becca’s testimony.
May you like
I had the truth.
And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.
