Page 6 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“What’s this? A bunch of . . . cash?” She knew he accepted only cash for his work and kept a lot in the boat shed.

“Yes. And a burner phone.”

“What the hell, Grant . . . ?”

“If anything happens to me, if I have to take off suddenly, this is how you can reach me. I’ve programmed in a mobile phone number for me.”

“‘Take off suddenly’—what’s goingon? Where are you going?”

He shook his head. “Maybe nowhere. Maybe nothing will happen.”How do you even start?Grant wondered. The less she knew, the better. The safer, for her. “This isn’t the time to get into it. I just need you to trust me for now.”

“That’s not good enough,” Sarah said. “I want to know what you’re talking about.”

Grant paused. “Soon,” he said.

3

For the next couple of days, he watched the clock, listened for every noise, every passing car. One day, two days . . . At the end of day three, while he was watching a forgettable show on Netflix, trying to distract himself, the doorbell rang.

He paused the show, went to the front door.

A policeman, a thickset middle-aged man in a blue uniform. Someone Grant didn’t recognize.

“Are you Grant Anderson?” the cop said.

“I am,” Grant said, his heart rate quickening. “What’s up?”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Lundberg from the police department over in Hamlin.” Hamlin was the coastal town where Captain Lyle kept his boat. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Of course,” Grant said. “Is there a problem?” He felt a bead of sweat form behind his ear and slowly trickle down his neck.

“May I come in?”

Grant opened the door and showed the cop in.

Settling into the chair next to the couch, Detective Sergeant Lundberg took out a notebook. “So, I’m looking into the disappearance of a thirty-six-year-old man from New York. His car was found over by the dock in Hamlin. A Porsche Nine-eleven. Anyway, your friend Lyle Boudreaux said you were supposed to take a man named Frederick Newman out on his boat, which is harbored in Hamlin, but he never showed. That right?”

Grant’s heart was jackhammering, but he kept his expression neutral. Another droplet of sweat coursed down the back of his neck. “Exactly.” If the sweat started streaming down his forehead, it was all over. He inhaled and exhaled silently, trying to calm himself.

“What time was Mr. Newman supposed to meet you?” Detective Sergeant Lundberg had a comb-over, strands of gray hair inadequately covering a large bald spot.

“Seven thirty. That’s when Lyle normally takes his morning group out. I waited until, I don’t know, maybe eight thirty? And when he didn’t appear, I took the boat out for a bit by myself. Caught some striper.” He smiled casually—anyway, he hoped it looked that way.

“And you never heard from Mr. Newman, never saw him?”

“Right. He never showed. That’s all I know. Sorry I can’t help you.”

Lundberg leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be satisfied. Grant felt a flood of relief wash over him.

“Hey, so I see you’re a boatbuilder,” the cop said. He pointed toward Grant’s workshop, the shed to the left of the house. “How’s the boat business these days?”

4

For the last five years he’d found himself always thinking ahead, always calculating the next step, never fully able to relax and enjoy his blessed life. He’d set up several motion-triggered Canary Flex cameras on the exterior of the house. He didn’t like surprise visitors.

Normally, Grant found serenity in mindless tasks like painting or sanding: a chance to be in his own head and mull things over, let his mind wander. But the next morning, as he brushed on epoxy, his brain churned with fear—What if Newman’s body washed up onshore? What if there were security cameras in the harbor in Hamlin? Capturing video of Newman coming aboard theSuzanne B?

Jesus, he didn’t want to think about it.

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