Chapter 1 - Parking Space B17
The first contraction hit while I was still inside the elevator.
I gripped the chrome rail, bent forward, and waited for the pressure to loosen around my spine.
Grant stared at his phone.
“You okay?”
“No, Grant. I’m obviously not okay.”
He looked irritated before catching himself.
“Right. Sorry.”
The doors opened into the underground garage beneath Ellison Meridian Development’s unfinished River North project in Denver.
Half of Level B had been closed for renovations.
Concrete pillars.
Fluorescent lights.
Dust.
Cold air.
My hospital bag hung from Grant’s shoulder.
I was thirty five years old, thirty nine weeks pregnant, and seven minutes earlier my obstetrician had told me over the phone to come directly to the hospital.
Grant had insisted on driving.
“My car’s closer.”
It wasn’t.
His Mercedes was parked two levels above.
I should have noticed.
But then another contraction came.
Harder.
I leaned against a pillar marked B17.
“Grant.”
“I’m getting the car.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Thirty seconds.”
He kissed my forehead.
Then walked away.
Not ran.
Not panicked.
Walked.
I watched him disappear around the concrete corner.
Two minutes passed.
Then five.
Then eight.
I called.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
The garage suddenly seemed enormous.
Another contraction folded me.
My hospital bag was gone.
Grant had taken it.
Then I felt warmth down my legs.
My water broke.
“Grant!”
Nothing.
I reached for the concrete pillar.
My knees shook.
I lowered myself carefully but not carefully enough.
The cold floor struck through my dress.
That was when footsteps approached.
Not dress shoes.
Heavy boots.
A man appeared from behind a construction barrier.
Gray beard.
Dirty army coat.
Beanie.
Shopping cart.
For anyone watching the garage cameras, he looked homeless.
I knew better.
“Jonah.”
Jonah Reed pulled the beard slightly away from his mouth.
“Easy.”
He was fifty four, a former Denver financial crimes detective and the licensed private investigator I had hired three months earlier.
He crouched two feet away.
“I’m not touching you unless you say.”
“Help me sit.”
He steadied my shoulder.
Another contraction.
I crushed his sleeve in my fist.
“Where is Grant?”
Jonah’s eyes moved toward the upper ramp.
“He went toward the service stairwell.”
“Celeste?”
“Her car came in twelve minutes ago.”
Of course.
Celeste Wynn.
Thirty three.
Blonde.
Elegant.
A consultant Grant had insisted we hire eighteen months earlier.
And the woman he had been sleeping with for at least nine months.
I had known for six.
Pretended not to.
Because the affair was not the worst thing Grant was hiding.
Jonah looked at his phone.
“Ambulance is coming.”
“How long?”
“Minutes.”
“Police?”
“Nearby.”
Another contraction.
I closed my eyes.
“Why are you dressed like this?”
“Grant disabled the regular garage cameras last week. He thinks no one notices me sleeping near the south stairwell.”
I opened my eyes.
“He disabled them?”
“Yes.”
That mattered.
We had suspected he might.
Not known.
Then high heels clicked from the darkness.
Jonah stood.
Celeste stepped into the fluorescent light wearing a red wool coat over a black dress.
Not hospital clothes.
Not someone arriving to help.
She looked at me on the floor.
Then laughed.
“Well.”
Jonah moved between us.
“Stay back.”
Celeste looked him up and down.
“What is this?”
Then recognized me.
Her smile widened.
“This is uglier than I expected.”
“Where’s Grant?”
“Busy.”
“With what?”
“Finishing what you should’ve made easy six months ago.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What?”
She stepped closer.
Jonah blocked.
“Back up.”
Celeste ignored him.
“You know, Mara, Grant spent years telling me you were brilliant.”
She looked at my stomach.
“Apparently brilliant women still end up on concrete.”
Another contraction hit.
I gripped the pillar.
Celeste stepped around Jonah suddenly.
Her heel came down hard against the side of my already trembling knee.
Pain flashed through me.
Jonah grabbed her shoulder and pulled her backward.
“Enough.”
Celeste laughed.
“Have the bastard right here.”
My vision sharpened.
“Get away from me.”
“Grant and I are flying to Paris tonight.”
There it was.
The ticket.
I had found the reservation two weeks earlier.
One way.
Two passengers.
Grant Ellison.
Celeste Wynn.
Jonah moved fully between us.
“Back away.”
Celeste stared at him.
Then at my wrist.
My smartwatch screen had awakened.
A secure authorization page waited.
She laughed.
“What is that, your little nurse button?”
“No.”
I pressed it.
A green circle appeared.
AUTHENTICATED.
Nothing exploded.
No money magically vanished.
The button did three things that my attorney, the independent board committee, and two banks had prepared days earlier.
It revoked Grant’s corporate authentication credentials.
It sent my signed confirmation to counsel to activate the emergency preservation protocol on specific accounts already identified in a court order.
And it notified company security that Grant Ellison was no longer authorized to access Ellison Meridian systems.
Celeste’s phone rang.
She looked annoyed.
Then answered.
“Yes?”
Her face changed.
“What do you mean restricted?”
Silence.
“No. That account is mine.”
More silence.
Then:
“What court order?”
She looked at me.
Her lips parted.
Behind her, footsteps thundered down the service stairs.
Grant appeared.
No hospital bag.
No car keys.
A black document case in his hand.
He saw me.
Saw Jonah.
Saw Celeste.
Then saw the green screen on my watch.
His face turned white.
“Mara.”
Jonah slowly opened the filthy coat.
A silver retired law enforcement credential hung beneath it beside the body camera he had been wearing legally as part of the surveillance arrangement.
Grant stopped.
“Mara, wait.”
I looked at the document case.
“What’s in the bag, Grant?”
His fingers tightened around it.
Then red and blue lights flashed across the garage ceiling.
Paramedics entered from one side.
Police from the other.
Celeste stepped backward.
Grant whispered:
“This isn’t what you think.”
Another contraction hit.
I held Jonah’s arm and forced myself upright.
“You left me here to lose everything.”
Grant stared at me.
Then Jonah looked at the document case.
“No.”
May you like
His voice was calm.
“He already did.”
