Page 122 of Ethan & Grace

He knew who had run Amy over, and that very likely meant he also knew who had abducted Grace. We hadn’t asked him about the accident back then, because we’d known he wouldn’t give us any answers. Worst-case scenario, he might have actively sabotaged our investigation. But that was no longer my biggest concern. And now that this had become personal, maybe he would be willing to play ball. Despite our differences, I was still his son.

I parked outside the villa and took a deep breath. Laying into my dad the way I had into Claude would achieve the exact opposite of what I wanted, especially after our last confrontation. But I wouldn’t leave until he gave me a name, even if I had to get on my knees and beg.

Once I’d composed myself, I rang the doorbell.

I waited.

I rang it again.

A light came on, and a few seconds later, the intercom crackled into life.

“Do you have any idea how late it is?” came my dad’s tinny voice.

I looked straight up into the surveillance camera above the door. “Yes, but I really need to talk to you. It’s important. Please.” The last word cost me everything I had.

My dad didn’t respond, and for a moment, I was afraid he might just leave me standing at the door—but then the buzzer sounded.

I stepped into the villa. It was elegant but minimalist, with a lot of white, beige, and gold. A chandelier adorned with crystal drops hung in the foyer, and vases with lavish bouquets were everywhere, much like at The Darlington. It looked like my dad had hastily rented—or bought, it was hard to say—a furnished villa.

I’d barely had time to glance around before he came down the stairs in his dressing gown. His expression was stern, his lips pursed in disapproval, but I could also see a flicker of curiosity. It must have been months, if not years, since I’d been to see him of my own accord. His broken arm was still in a sling.

I swallowed my pride. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s getting there,” he replied curtly, running his good hand over his sleep-tousled dark-grey hair to tame it. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

As if on cue, the large wall clock beside me chimed the hour. Two o’clock. Even though I’d had the entire drive to think about how to handle this, I suddenly wasn’t sure where to start.

“Shall we sit down?” I asked, with more patience than I actually felt. Every second felt precious, but I knew I wouldn’t get the information I needed by rushing or pressuring him. I forced myself to stay calm—at least on the outside. Inside, the storm of emotions had become a tsunami.

My dad nodded and led me into the living room, where we sat down on two sofas, positioned as far apart as they could possibly be. He didn’t speak, leaving me to break the silence.

“I’m sorry I broke your arm,” I started, and I meant it, even if not for the reasons my dad might assume. “I shouldn’t have got violent. It’s not me. I promise it won’t happen again.”

He studied me closely. I could only imagine what a wreck I must look after the last few hours. “Apology accepted,” he said at last, but he didn’t apologise back. He clearly wasn’t sorry he’d slapped me, which came as no big surprise. He’d never been sorry. “Still, I can’t imagine you got me out of bed at two in the morning because you’ve suddenly been overcome by remorse. So, what is this really about?”

I wrung my fingers nervously and decided to be direct. “I know you deleted the CCTV footage from the night of the Pearl Gala—the footage that showed Amy Claymore’s accident—to cover up who was responsible.”

My dad didn’t so much as flinch. “It’s fascinating to hear what you think you know.”

“Please. This is important. I need to find out who was behind the accident.”

He got up and walked over to the drinks trolley beside the fireplace to pour himself a glass of water. “I can’t tell you that,” he said, “because I didn’t delete that footage. Do you really think I’d paint another target on my back when I already have those lying bitches and their lawyers on my case?”

I wanted to tell him that those “bitches” weren’t lying. There was a video that proved it beyond a doubt. But this wasn’t the moment to get into his other crimes. “Please, Dad. I won’t tell anyone you deleted the footage, but I need to know who caused the accident. My girlfriend’s life could be at stake. Please.”

He took a sip of his water. “Are you talking about Miss Claymore?”

Of course my mum had told him about Grace. “Yes. She’s missing. I don’t have time to explain how it’s all connected, but I know that whoever is behind her disappearance is the same person who’s responsible for her sister’s death. So I need to know who it was. Please.”

My dad set his glass down serenely and studied me with his steel-blue eyes. “I’ve no idea what you’ve got yourself into, Ethan. This family has enough problems of its own. We don’t need to add someone else’s to the list. Regardless, I can’t help you. I didn’t delete those recordings, whether you believe me or not.”

No, I really didn’t believe him. He was a habitual liar who dodged blame and responsibility whenever it suited him. “I know it was you, Dad. There are only three people who have access to that data. Hank has an alibi, and we both know Henry would never do something like that. So you’re the only one left.”

His expression remained stony. “You’re still wrong.”

I clenched my hands into fists, desperately clinging to my calm facade. My dad was lying, but the talk was still going well. We were calm. Reasonable. I might still get what I needed. But if I started shouting now, it would all be over. He’d shut me out. “Dad, please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll show up at every court hearing and sing your praises to the press, if you’ll just tell me who asked you to delete that footage,” I promised. “You probably don’t understand this any more than Mum does, but Grace is important to me. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her. Please.” My voice cracked with desperation on my last words.

He shook his head. “I can’t help you.”