“My father.”
Evelyn was silent.
Not because she lacked questions.
Because she understood the answer had changed the shape of the conversation.
“Is Malcolm Bennett living?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have contact with him?”
“Not much.”
“How not much?”
“I haven’t seen him in almost three years.”
“Why?”
I looked toward the closed bedroom door.
“That’s complicated.”
“We may need complicated.”
Of course we did.
My father had always existed in the category of things I could avoid explaining by changing the subject.
He and my mother divorced when I was twelve.
He remarried twice.
Started businesses.
Lost businesses.
Moved frequently.
Borrowed money.
Reappeared with apologies and ambitious plans.
Then disappeared when those plans failed.
By the time I met Grant, I had learned to keep Malcolm at a polite distance.
He attended my wedding.
He made a speech.
He told Grant to take care of his girl.
I suddenly felt nauseated.
“How does Grant say Malcolm was involved?” I asked.
“His attorney has not provided the full statement yet.”
“What did he provide?”
“That MD Ventures originated from a venture involving Grant, Derek, and Malcolm.”
“When?”
“Approximately nine years ago.”
Before I met Grant.
My father knew him first.
I sat down.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Grant told me they met at our engagement party.”
Evelyn went quiet.
I laughed once.
“He lied about that too.”
“Possibly.”
“No. I remember.”
At our engagement party, Dad had arrived late.
Grant shook his hand.
They exchanged the stiff, slightly awkward smiles of two men meeting for the first time.
I had believed the performance.
Maybe because I had no reason not to.
“What kind of venture?” I asked.
“We’re trying to establish that.”
“I need to call my father.”
“Wait.”
The word stopped me.
“Why?”
“Because if Malcolm is connected to conduct investigators are examining, contacting him without preparation may complicate things.”
“He’s my father.”
“I understand.”
“No, Evelyn. My husband says my father was his business partner before I met him.”
“I understand exactly why you want to call.”
“Then—”
“And I am asking you to wait until Marcus speaks with the investigator.”
I closed my eyes.
“Fine.”
Waiting had become another form of torture.
I told Mara.
She stared at me.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“That was my reaction.”
“He barely knew Grant.”
“Apparently he knew him before I did.”
Mara stood.
She paced toward the kitchen, then back.
“Do you remember the engagement party?”
“Yes.”
“They acted like strangers.”
“Yes.”
“So both of them lied.”
“Looks that way.”
Mara’s face hardened.
“Call him.”
“Evelyn said not yet.”
“Of course she did.”
“She has reasons.”
“I know. I hate them.”
“So do I.”
We searched old photographs.
My father appeared in dozens.
Wedding.
Engagement.
One Christmas.
A barbecue.
Always smiling.
Always slightly outside the center.
Then Mara found something.
A photograph from my engagement party.
Grant and Malcolm stood near the garage.
They were not shaking hands.
They were talking.
Grant’s back faced the camera.
Dad’s expression was serious.
I zoomed in.
Nothing else.
No proof.
Only a moment that now looked different.
Mara whispered, “We thought they were getting acquainted.”
“Yes.”
Maybe they had been arguing.
Planning.
Warning each other.
The past had become unstable because context kept changing.
At noon, Marcus called.
“You can contact your father.”
My pulse jumped.
“Patel already interviewed him?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why?”
“Because he contacted police himself.”
I stood.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“How did he know?”
“Grant’s attorney apparently informed him that his name had come up.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did Dad say?”
“He wants to cooperate.”
“That sounds like Dad.”
Marcus paused.
“What does that mean?”
“He likes arriving early to disasters and calling it responsibility.”
“That may be useful here.”
“Can I call him?”
“Yes. But assume anything substantive may eventually matter legally.”
“I understand.”
I dialed Malcolm.
He answered on the first ring.
“Laurel.”
His voice had aged.
I hated that I noticed.
“Dad.”
“I’m sorry.”
I almost laughed.
Apparently everyone in my life had decided those two words were an opening statement.
“How long did you know Grant before I met him?”
Silence.
“Dad.”
“About a year.”
My eyes closed.
Mara sat beside me.
“You introduced us?”
“No.”
“Did you know I had met him?”
“Not at first.”
“When did you find out?”
“A few weeks after you started dating.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I should have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Of what?”
“MD Ventures.”
“What was it?”
“A promotions company at first.”
“That’s what Grant said.”
“Ticket resale. Event marketing. Small sponsorship deals.”
“And then?”
“Payment processing.”
“For illegal businesses?”
“Not initially.”
“Eventually?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“Online betting. Unlicensed gaming. Some other things.”
“And you were involved.”
“Yes.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“How deeply?”
“Enough.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I helped set up accounts.”
“In other people’s names?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I felt sick.
“So Grant learned this from you.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“Derek was already doing it.”
“But you participated.”
“Yes.”
“How did Grant get involved?”
“He was good with paperwork.”
The phrase nearly made me laugh.
Of course.
“What happened?”
“We made money.”
“How much?”
“Not millions. Enough to make stopping difficult.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“One account got flagged.”
“When?”
“Before you met Grant.”
“And?”
“I got scared.”
“So you walked away.”
“I tried.”
“What does that mean?”
“Derek didn’t want to stop.”
“And Grant?”
Silence.
“Dad.”
“He didn’t either.”
I stared at the wall.
“Did you warn me about him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought he had left it too.”
“Why would you think that?”
“He told me.”
I laughed.
“You believed Grant.”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to the family.”
Mara touched my shoulder.
Dad said, “Laurel.”
“What?”
“When I learned you were dating him, I confronted him.”
“What did he say?”
“That MD Ventures was finished.”
“And you accepted that.”
“I wanted to.”
There it was.
Not belief.
Desire.
The same thing I had done repeatedly.
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Blackmail you?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad’s voice broke slightly.
“Because telling you meant telling you what I had done.”
I closed my eyes.
That answer was painfully believable.
“You protected your reputation.”
“Yes.”
“At my expense.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
No excuse.
Just yes.
It hurt differently from Grant.
Maybe because Dad had spent years disappointing me.
I had no illusion left to shatter.
“Did you know about L.B. Consulting?”
Silence.
My pulse accelerated.
“Dad.”
“I knew later.”
“When?”
“After the wedding.”
“How?”
“I saw a filing.”
“And you still didn’t tell me.”
“I confronted Grant.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was closing it.”
I laughed.
“You confronted him instead of telling the person whose identity he stole.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I was afraid you’d find out about my involvement.”
“You keep saying that like it explains anything.”
“It explains my cowardice.”
That silenced me.
My father had always been good at excuses.
That sentence contained none.
I asked, “Did you ever receive money from L.B. Consulting?”
“No.”
“MD Ventures?”
“Yes, before I left.”
“How much?”
“Over the whole period? Maybe forty thousand.”
“Profit?”
“Some.”
“And the rest?”
“Payments.”
“For what?”
“Setting things up.”
I felt cold.
“Did you give Grant my information?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How did he get it?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought of the rental application.
My driver’s license.
The apartment.
He had not needed Dad.
He had access through intimacy.
“Did you know Rourke?”
“No.”
“Derek obviously.”
“Yes.”
“Cynthia Vale?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“She did bookkeeping.”
“For MD Ventures?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“From near the beginning.”
Another person whose involvement reached further back than I knew.
“Did she know what the accounts were for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad.”
“I genuinely don’t know. We gave her descriptions. Promotions. Processing. Vendor settlements.”
“She may have believed you.”
“She may have.”
“Or she may not.”
“Yes.”
I wrote her name.
“What about Fairline Promotions?”
Dad went quiet.
“You know that name?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“That was Derek’s company.”
I looked at Mara.
“So MD Ventures transferred money to Derek’s other company.”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Usually settlement.”
“Meaning?”
“Moving money between processors.”
My stomach twisted.
This network had existed long before Laurel Bakes.
My business had not created the scheme.
It had been absorbed into an old one.
I asked the question that mattered most.
“Did Grant start dating me because of you?”
Dad’s breath caught.
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I have.”
“Did he know I was your daughter before we met?”
Silence.
Too long.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
The room went still.
Grant had known who I was.
“When we met at Nina’s birthday party?”
“Yes.”
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He saw pictures.”
My throat tightened.
“So when he introduced himself—”
“He knew your name.”
I closed my eyes.
The memory returned with cruel clarity.
Grant smiling beside the crowded bar.
You’re Laurel, right?
I had thought a mutual friend told him.
“Did you ask him to meet me?”
“No.”
“Did Derek?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Grant ever talk about me before we dated?”
“One time.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What did he say?”
Dad hesitated.
“He asked whether you were good with money.”
Mara swore softly.
I could barely breathe.
“When?”
“A few months before you met.”
The floor seemed to shift.
“Why would he ask that?”
“I assumed conversation.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Dad was silent.
“You knew exactly why a man involved in financial schemes would ask whether your daughter was good with money.”
“I didn’t want to know.”
My eyes filled.
That sentence hurt more than almost anything he could have said.
He had seen danger approaching and turned his head because looking directly at it would have required action.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You should have protected me.”
“I know.”
“I was your daughter.”
“I know.”
His voice broke completely.
I did not comfort him.
For once, the person who failed me could sit with the pain of knowing it.
“I need everything you have,” I said.
“Records?”
“Everything. Emails. Statements. Names. Dates.”
“I already told police I’ll provide it.”
“Good.”
“Laurel.”
“What?”
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
I ended the call.
Mara and I sat silently.
Then she said, “Do you think Grant targeted you?”
I looked at the photograph of him from the night we met.
For years, that image belonged to a romantic beginning.
Now the same smile looked impossible to interpret.
“I don’t know.”
That answer hurt.
But I would not replace uncertainty with a story simply because I needed one.
My phone rang.
Marcus.
I answered.
“Patel just received Malcolm’s initial documents.”
“And?”
“There is an email.”
My stomach tightened.
“From who?”
“Grant to Derek.”
“When?”
“Three months before you met Grant.”
I stopped breathing.
“What does it say?”
Marcus hesitated.
Then read the relevant line.
Malcolm’s daughter has clean credit and steady income. Might solve the identity problem if we can get close enough.
I closed my eyes.
Mara saw my face.
“What?”
I could not answer.
Marcus continued.
“There is a reply from Derek.”
“What does it say?”
“He asks whether you know Grant.”
“And?”
“Grant writes: Not yet.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: The Email Written Before Laurel Met Grant Turned Their Romance Into Evidence and Forced Her to Question Every Early Memory
The Grocery Receipt on Our Kitchen Counter Became the First Proof That My Marriage Was Built on Unequal Rules
Part 14 of 39
