Page 61 of A Vintage of Regret
The sound of knuckles on wood cut through the quiet—three sharp raps at the back door.
They exchanged a look.
“That’s Grant. What’s he doing here at this hour?” Walter rose, sliding the deadbolt back. The cold crept in as Grant stood on the back stoop, shoulders rounded, shirt wrinkled, and hair mussed like he’d run both hands through it a hundred times. His eyes were red-rimmed, shadows etched deep beneath them.
“Jesus,” Walter murmured. “You look like death ran you over. Get in here.”
Grant crossed the threshold, and the faint scent of earth and humid air clung to him.
“Coffee?” Walter offered.
“Black. Thanks,” Grant said.
Bryson hooked his boot around the chair beside him and dragged it out. “Have a seat.” Normally, one of them would start in on the sparing, but there was no point in beating a man when he was down. “Did you come here straight from the station?”
Grant lowered himself into it like his bones might shatter under his own weight. “No. I took my wife home, kissed my kids, then drove here.”
Walter poured coffee into a thick ceramic mug and slid it over. “Would you like a muffin? Or I can whip up some eggs and sausage?”
Grant shook his head. “No thank you. Just the caffeine.” He wrapped his hands around the mug, staring into it. “What a night.”
Bryson leaned in, elbows braced on the table. “You doing okay?”
Grant snorted, his eyes stayed fixed on the coffee. “That’s a relative term.” A few moments of silence filled the kitchen before Grant said, “I knew about the missing money.”
Bryson’s jaw tightened. “Really? How long?”
“Few months. At first, I thought it was just a dumb mistake on my part. But I generally don’t make those. So, ran all the numbers again. They didn’t add up. It drove me crazy. I couldn’t figure it out, and while I know you think I’m an arrogant ass, I’m really good at my job.”
“I’ve never said you weren’t,” Bryson said.
“I was honestly shocked when I went through the books,” his dad offered. “Mistakes I can understand, but the money trail makes some interesting loops, and you know what it looks like,” Bryson’s dad said.
“I’ve been digging for the last couple of months. Didn’t want to say anything until I had proof. My name’s on vendor approvals that don’t exist. Transfers of funds. The checks…” Grant shook his head. “It looked bad. I wanted to find the problem before it went public. Before I went to anyone.”
Walter’s tone sharpened. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because you’re on the committee,” Grant shot back, frustration flaring before he caught himself. “You’d have to takeit straight to a meeting. If it was just a screw-up, I’d take the heat. But deep down I knew it wasn’t that, and I needed time to uncover… hell if I know.”
Walter’s gaze was steady. “Unfortunately, not coming forward didn’t do you any favors.”
Grant’s grip tightened on the mug. “It’s so much worse than I thought. The morning Dad died… we had a conversation about it.” His voice cracked. “He’d already figured it out. Looked at some records, and it all pointed to me.”
“How did he know?” Bryson asked.
“He didn’t say, but it didn’t matter. He might not be on the advisory board, but he still volunteered on the tourism and wine committee,” Grant said. “We argued for a bit. I swore to him I didn’t take it. I think he believed me. Or, at least, he wanted to.”
Bryson watched Grant's shoulders sag, as if admitting that even Sean had doubts was the final straw.
“When I left, he was standing at the end of your driveway, coffee cup in hand, reminding me that I needed to tell someone. To work with someone to figure it out. That if I didn’t do it, continuing to remain quiet would only make me look guilty.”
“You told Sandy that?” Bryson asked.
“Yeah. But now, I can’t tell if they think I’m lying. That they’re wondering if maybe we argued and I…” Grant’s words trailed off, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what they think.”
“What time did you leave your dad that morning?” his father asked.
“Around seven,” Grant said.
