[COMPLETED] Five Days Before They Buried Grant Sterling

I slept for forty-three minutes.

At six in the morning, Leo woke hungry. At six-ten, Nancy knocked on the service-quarters door and handed me coffee without asking whether I wanted any.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“So do you.”

“I’m sixty-two. I’m allowed.”

I almost smiled.

Then she looked at Leo, lowered her voice, and said, “Julian moved the board meeting to noon.”

The coffee stopped halfway to my mouth.

“Today?”

Nancy nodded.

“My appointment is at ten.”

“I know.”

“That gives me no time.”

“I know that too.”

She turned to leave.

“Nancy.”

She paused.

“Why are you helping me?”

For a moment, she stared at the polished floor.

“Because Mr. Sterling hired me when I was thirty-nine and newly divorced with two children and no references anyone cared about. Because he paid for my daughter’s college before she knew he had done it. Because I have watched his nephew turn this house into a waiting room for a funeral.”

Her eyes lifted to mine.

“And because three weeks ago Julian ordered me to remove every framed photograph of Grant’s daughter from the west wing.”

I remembered the question Grant had answered with a blink.

“You know where she is?”

“No.”

“Her name?”

Nancy hesitated.

“Claire.”

“Does Julian know how to contact her?”

“Probably.”

“Does Grant?”

“He used to.”

She looked toward the hallway.

“I’ve already said too much.”

Then she walked away.

At seven-thirty, Julian appeared in the service kitchen while I was slicing a banana into pieces for Leo.

He did not belong in that room. Everything about him—from his polished shoes to his cuff links—looked offended by stainless-steel counters and industrial coffee.

“Pediatric appointment today?” he asked.

I kept cutting.

“Nancy mentioned it.”

“I can have a driver take you.”

“No need.”

“I insist.”

I looked at him.

His smile was easy. His eyes were not.

“Leo hates unfamiliar drivers,” I said.

“He’s nine months old.”

“He has strong opinions.”

Julian’s smile faded slightly.

“Be back by eleven.”

“My appointment is at ten.”

“Then don’t linger.”

He walked away.

I waited until the kitchen door swung shut.

Then I whispered, “He knows.”

Leo slapped a piece of banana against his tray.

I decided to take that as agreement.

At eight, I went to Grant.

Barragan had not arrived yet. Grant looked weaker than he had during the night, but his eyes were clear.

“Board meeting is at noon.”

One blink.

“I’m going to contact Naomi Park.”

One blink.

“I need some way to prove it’s from you.”

He stared at me.

Then his gaze moved toward the bedside cabinet.

I opened the top drawer.

Nothing but tissues, lip balm, and a silver watch.

“Watch?”

Two blinks.

Second drawer.

Socks, reading glasses, a leather case.

“Case?”

One blink.

Inside were cuff links and an old brass key.

I held up the key.

One blink.

“What does it open?”

We did not have time for the alphabet.

“Office?”

Two.

“Safe?”

One.

“Your safe?”

One.

“Something Naomi will recognize?”

One.

I slipped the key into my pocket.

A sound in the corridor made Grant close his eyes.

I moved to the window as Julian’s security chief, Victor Hale, entered.

Victor was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties with a military haircut and the habit of noticing everything without appearing to look at anything.

“Car is ready for your appointment,” he said.

“I told Julian I didn’t need one.”

“He told me you did.”

Victor glanced at Grant, then back at me.

I had never spoken more than ten words to him.

“Is the driver staying with me?”

“I’m driving.”

Wonderful.

The entire plan had just become harder.

At nine-thirty, Leo and I climbed into the black SUV.

Victor pulled away from the estate without conversation.

The brass key felt hot inside my coat pocket.

Ten minutes into the drive, he said, “You’re nervous.”

“My baby has a fever.”

“He doesn’t.”

I looked at him.

Victor kept his eyes on Sunset Boulevard.

“His cheeks aren’t flushed. He was laughing when you put him in the car.”

“Teething comes and goes.”

“So does lying.”

My pulse jumped.

Victor turned onto Wilshire.

“I’ve worked for Grant Sterling for seventeen years,” he said. “I’ve seen people lie to protect him, steal from him, impress him, betray him, and sleep with him. You’re not doing any of those things well enough to fool me.”

I stared out the window.

“Are you going to tell Julian?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Why you’re carrying Grant’s old deposit key.”

My hand went instinctively to my pocket.

Victor’s mouth almost moved.

“That answers one question.”

I said nothing.

He drove another block.

“Grant gave you the key?”

I looked at him carefully.

“Yes.”

Victor’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Grant can communicate?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Blinking. A little movement. A few words.”

For the first time, Victor looked shaken.

“Since when?”

“Tuesday night.”

“And Julian?”

“Doesn’t know.”

Victor turned into the medical complex and parked in a corner away from the entrance.

“Show me.”

“I can’t. Not here.”

“Then tell me something only Grant would know.”

I almost laughed from stress. “I’m his caregiver, not his biographer.”

“The key?”

“He indicated it opens a safe.”

“Which safe?”

“I don’t know.”

Victor went quiet.

Then he took out his phone.

I reached for his wrist.

“Don’t.”

His eyes dropped to my hand.

I released him.

“If Julian finds out before the board meeting, Grant may not get another chance.”

Victor studied my face.

Finally, he put the phone away.

“Your pediatrician is on the third floor. Naomi Park’s office is twelve minutes from here.”

I stopped breathing.

“You know?”

“I know where every person important to Grant works.”

He looked toward the medical building.

“You have forty minutes. I’ll tell Julian the doctor is running late.”

I could have hugged him.

I did not.

“Why are you helping?”

Victor’s expression hardened.

“Because Julian ordered me yesterday to change the estate access codes and remove Grant’s personal security detail. Grant has been sick before. He has never surrendered control of his own house.”

He unlocked the doors.

“Go.”

I carried Leo into the building, checked in, and waited exactly six minutes before telling the receptionist I needed fresh air.

Then I walked out the side entrance.

A rideshare took me to Century City.

Naomi Park’s office occupied half of the thirty-second floor of a glass tower. The receptionist looked at my cheap coat, my baby, and my lack of appointment with professional disbelief.

“I need to see Ms. Park.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Then I can take your information.”

“It’s about Grant Sterling.”

That got her attention.

“Mr. Sterling is represented by—”

“Naomi Park.”

The receptionist’s expression cooled.

“I’m aware.”

I put the brass key on the desk.

“Tell her I have this.”

She looked at it.

Then at me.

Three minutes later, a woman in a charcoal suit opened the inner door.

She was maybe forty, with straight black hair and the calmest eyes I had ever seen.

“Where did you get that?”

“Grant.”

She did not move.

“He can’t move.”

“He can.”

Naomi’s face changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

“Come inside.”

Her office door had barely closed before I told her everything.

The twitch.

The blinks.

The whispered warning.

Barragan’s injection.

The conversation in the service hall.

The board vote.

Naomi listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she said, “Do you understand what you’re alleging?”

“I understand what I saw.”

“Grant’s condition has been certified by three physicians.”

“Did Barragan choose them?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Have you seen Grant yourself?”

“No. Julian said Grant requested privacy.”

“He didn’t.”

Naomi stood and crossed to a cabinet.

“The key opens a private document safe in Grant’s old downtown office. It contains originals of certain corporate directives. Only Grant and I knew he kept it.”

“So you believe me.”

“I believe Grant gave you something he would not give casually.”

My knees nearly weakened with relief.

“Can you stop the board meeting?”

“Not based on a key and your account.”

“What do you need?”

“Grant conscious in front of an independent physician. Ideally on record. And I need to know whether the board vote is what you think it is.”

“It is.”

“Did Grant tell you?”

“Yes.”

Naomi picked up her phone.

I grabbed her wrist.