Chapter 11 - THE SECOND GALA
Grant entered the Fairmont through a service tunnel connecting the hotel to an underground parking garage.
He knew the route because the foundation had used it to move politicians away from reporters.
By the time we reached the hotel, smoke was rising behind the ballroom windows.
My father had arranged the donor tables exactly as they appeared the night before.
The white roses remained.
The podium stood beneath my mother’s photograph.
Grant had placed the original trust charter on the stage.
Fuel covered the carpet around it.
He held a lighter in one hand and a gun in the other.
Celia and I entered through opposite ballroom doors.
Federal marksmen waited outside his view.
Grant smiled when he saw us.
“My daughters.”
Celia stopped near the dance floor.
“Put the gun down.”
“You called agents.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“You turned her against me.”
“No.”
“You finally let her see you.”
His face tightened.
The ballroom lights reflected against the glass vases.
White roses had begun wilting.
Grant lifted the charter.
“This document created every problem.”
“Mom created the trust to help people.”
“She tied thirty-two million dollars behind sentimental rules.”
“She understood boundaries.”
“She understood guilt.”
He threw the charter onto the podium.
“I built the foundation.”
“Mom funded it.”
“I gave it influence.”
“You gave it shell companies.”
He pointed the gun toward me.
“You came home in filthy clothes and destroyed twenty years of work.”
“I asked for an audit.”
“You made donors doubt me.”
“The records made them doubt you.”
“You were supposed to sign.”
Celia stepped closer.
“And I was supposed to smile.”
Grant looked at her.
“I gave you everything.”
“You gave me things.”
“You never gave me the truth.”
His expression changed.
“You were always easier than Elise.”
Celia flinched.
He continued.
“You understood presentation.”
“You knew how to make people comfortable.”
“You were useful.”
The word reached her like a slap.
Nolan had used the same description.
Useful.
Not loved.
Not trusted.
Useful.
Celia removed her engagement ring.
She placed it on a table.
“Then I resign.”
Grant laughed.
“From what?”
“From being the daughter you display.”
His hand tightened around the gun.
The lighter fell onto the fuel.
Fire raced toward the podium.
I moved.
I pulled the ballroom curtain down over the flame.
Celia kicked the fuel container away.
Grant fired.
The bullet struck the chandelier chain.
Crystal shattered across the dance floor.
Federal agents entered.
Grant grabbed the burning charter and ran toward the stage exit.
I followed.
He reached the upper balcony.
Smoke covered the railings.
Below us, agents extinguished the fire.
Grant held the charter over the open atrium.
“Take another step and your mother’s trust disappears.”
“The bank has copies.”
“Not the original restrictions.”
“Ruth has certified records.”
“Without this, your authority can be challenged for years.”
I stopped.
He smiled.
“You still need something from me.”
“No.”
I looked at the burning edge of the charter.
“Veterans do not need a piece of paper to prove you stole from them.”
“The law might.”
“Then we fight in court.”
His smile vanished.
He had expected me to bargain.
Control required the other person to fear losing something more than they feared surrendering.
I was done surrendering.
Grant threw the charter.
Celia appeared below.
She caught it beneath the fallen curtain and smothered the flame.
My father stared at her.
For one second, he forgot the agents.
Dana Brooks reached him from behind.
The gun fell.
Handcuffs closed around his wrists.
Grant looked at both of us.
“Your mother would be ashamed.”
Celia wiped soot from her face.
“No.”
May you like
She held the damaged charter against her chest.
“She warned us about you.”
