Chapter 3 - THE TRAP IS SET
The room went dead silent except for the steady beep of my heart monitor.
Poisoned.
The morning teas Grant brewed for me every single day. The "prenatal vitamins" he insisted on handing me himself with a glass of water.
He wasn't just hiding eighteen million dollars of stolen assets. He was trying to eliminate me and our baby so he could inherit my family's estate and cover his tracks forever.
"Dad..." I choked back a sob, my body trembling. "The documents... I found them in his safe tonight. He forged my signature on private loan guarantees. He's broke. His entire luxury development firm is a giant Ponzi scheme."
My father placed a warm, reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"Listen to me very carefully, Claire," he said, his voice as steady as steel. "You are safe now. I am not letting him near you or my granddaughter ever again."
"He destroyed my phone," I whispered. "He thinks he erased everything."
"He forgot who your father is," Dad replied with a cold, grim smile.
My father pulled out his phone and tapped a short code. Within thirty seconds, two men in suit jackets and dark ties walked into the radiology holding area.
One was Detective Frank Miller, an old friend of my father's from the Special Investigations Unit.
"Frank," my father said, pointing to the CT scans still glowing on the monitor screen. "That’s the evidence of physical assault. And here are the lab reports showing chemical induction of labor."
Detective Miller looked at the scans, his face hardening. "Where is the husband?"
"He's sitting in the private waiting lounge, drinking coffee and pretending to be a grieving spouse," my father said. "Is the warrant ready?"
"Not for the attempted murder yet," Detective Miller explained softly. "We need physical evidence from the home—the weapon, the poisoned supplements, and the financial files Claire saw. If we arrest him now on just suspicion, his high-priced lawyers will post bail in an hour, and he'll clean out the house before sunrise."
I looked at Detective Miller, then at my father.
"The camera," I suddenly remembered, sitting up straight.
"What camera?" my father asked.
"The nursery monitor!" I said, my voice rising in realization. "We put a temporary motion-sensing camera on the hallway console. It faces the kitchen door. It records audio and uploads directly to a secure cloud server connected to my personal iPad."
"Where is your iPad?" Detective Miller asked immediately.
"In my overnight bag... in the trunk of Grant's car," I replied.
My father and the detective exchanged a look.
"He doesn't know it's in the trunk," I continued, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. "Grant thinks he destroyed the only phone. He thinks I'm terrified, confused, and helpless."
"So we give him exactly what he expects," my father said, a brilliant, dangerous idea forming in his eyes. "We play along for the next two hours."
Ten minutes later, my father walked out into the main waiting room.
Grant immediately stood up, smoothing his designer jacket. He forced an expression of deep worry onto his face.
"Daniel! How is she? How is the baby?" Grant asked, stepping forward.
My father looked at Grant with a carefully crafted expression of exhaustion and defeat.
"She has a severe concussion, Grant," my father said softly, shaking his head. "And her blood pressure is dangerously elevated. We've given her a heavy sedative to stabilize the baby's heart rate."
Grant’s eyes flickered with a hidden flash of victory. "Is she conscious?"
"Barely," Dad said. "She's extremely confused. She keeps asking where she is. The impact caused retrograde amnesia... she doesn't remember anything from tonight."
Grant took a subtle, deep breath. The tension in his shoulders visibly melted away.
"Poor Claire," Grant said, putting on a tragic tone. "I told her she was moving too fast. It's been so stressful with the baby coming. Can I see her?"
"She's sleeping in ICU Room 402," my father replied. "Only medical staff allowed for the next few hours. Why don't you go home, Grant? Get some rest. You look exhausted."
"No, no, I should stay—"
"Grant," my father interrupted firmly. "You need to be clear-headed tomorrow to manage her care. Go home. Bring her overnight clothes and her personal belongings from her dressing room."
Grant paused. He looked at my father, trying to spot any sign of a trap. But my father played the role of a heartbroken, tired old doctor perfectly.
"All right," Grant finally nodded. "I'll go home, grab her bags, and come right back."
"Take your time," my father said smoothly.
Grant turned and walked out of the hospital, taking fast, confident strides toward his Maybach.
As soon as the sliding glass doors shut behind Grant, Detective Miller stepped out from behind a pillar, radioing his team.
"Unit 4, target is heading to his vehicle. Follow him at a safe distance. Do not execute the search until he enters the property."
My father turned back toward the ICU hallway, pulling his cell phone out again.
"Claire," my father said into the line as I listened from my hospital bed. "He bit the bait. He’s heading back to the house to destroy the files and the monitor."
"Let him try," I said, looking down at the monitor screen in my hands, which my father's team had just synced to my cloud backup. "Because I'm watching him right now."
On the iPad screen, the live feed of our million-dollar mansion lit up in high definition.
May you like
Grant’s car pulled into the driveway.
He didn't know that every room in his house was about to become his crime scene.
