“Julian searched my room,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “He took DNA samples from Leo. Maybe from me, too.”
Grant went still. “DNA?”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s looking for leverage,” Grant said, his eyes narrowing. “Either to accuse you of stealing, or to claim you brought an illegitimate child into this house to scam him.”
His gaze drifted down to Leo, who was sleeping peacefully beside him. Then Grant asked a question that caught me completely off guard.
“You’ve never mentioned the boy’s father.”
I felt a cold wall go up inside me. “His name is Rodrigo. He grew up in the foster care system. We met while working at a diner downtown. He walked out when Leo was three months old.”
“How old is he?” Grant asked, staring intently at me.
“Twenty-nine.”
Grant stared up at the ceiling, his jaw working silently.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
It wasn’t nothing.
Two days later, a courier delivered a sealed envelope to Julian at the house.
I happened to be passing the study with a tea tray when I heard Julian’s voice explode through the heavy oak door.
“That’s impossible!”
Silence. Then the rustle of papers being torn open.
“Run it again! That lab made a mistake!”
The study door flew open. Julian stormed out, completely oblivious to my presence, and sped off in his SUV.
He returned late that night with Dr. Barragan in tow. They locked themselves in the study for nearly two hours.
The moment they left, I went straight to Grant and reported everything.
Grant looked at me, then down at the baby sleeping in his arms.
“Mariana,” Grant said softly, “I had a son.”
I thought I had misheard him. “What?”
“I was seventeen,” Grant confessed, his voice thick with old grief. “The mother was my age. Her family moved her away the moment they found out. They told me the baby ended up in the state foster system. I searched for him for years… until I just stopped trying. I buried myself in work. Then in money.”
He looked at Leo’s tiny face.
“If Julian ran a DNA match using your baby’s sample against my profile—trying to prove you were an intruder…”
Grant didn’t finish the sentence. I did it for him.
“Rodrigo could be your son.”
Grant closed his eyes as a single tear escaped down his cheek. Leo reached out in his sleep, his little hand curling around Grant’s finger.
“And this little boy… might be my grandson.”
A cold dread washed over me.
Until that moment, Julian had only one motive to murder his uncle: money.
Now, he had just discovered that a biological son and grandson existed—direct heirs who would instantly strip him of every single dime he thought he was entitled to inherit.
“Julian isn’t going to wait six days anymore,” I whispered.
“No,” Grant said, his voice turning to steel. He held out his hand. “Give me the burner phone.”
“Who are you calling?”
For the first time since I’d met him, Grant smiled—a sharp, lethal expression.
“The people Julian has spent weeks assuming would arrive too late.”
Part 3
At 10:50 the following morning, three heavy vehicles pulled up the long driveway of the Bel Air estate.
Julian wasn’t home. He had left early, convinced Grant was still paralyzed in bed.
I opened the front gates.
A distinguished silver-haired man carrying a thick leather briefcase stepped out, followed by a younger female attorney, two private investigators, and two plainclothes LAPD detectives who showed me their badges before crossing the threshold.
The silver-haired man was Arthur Vance, Grant’s personal attorney for over twenty years.
“Where is he?” Arthur asked urgently.
I pointed toward the grand staircase. “Getting ready.”
Arthur looked at me, utterly bewildered.
Then, a heavy thud echoed from the top of the stairs.
Then another.
Grant appeared at the landing. He was wearing dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and leaning heavily on an antique wooden cane. He had spent two grueling nights practicing walking from his bed to the door, but he had never attempted stairs.
“Mr. Sterling…” Arthur breathed, his mouth agape.
Grant offered a faint smirk. “Don’t write my obituary just yet, Arthur.”
He descended step by step. I walked right behind him, ready to catch him if his legs gave out.
When he reached the bottom marble step, Grant was drenched in sweat, but he was standing tall on his own two feet.
Arthur embraced his old friend without a word. Grant patted the attorney’s back. “Work first, Arthur. We can get emotional later.”
For the next hour, the team reviewed the evidence Mariana and Grant had compiled: timestamped photos, altered medical charts, video footage, and bank transfers. The private investigators had already uncovered offshore wire transfers from an entity controlled by Julian to a private account held by Dr. Barragan.
Text messages between the two men explicitly discussed “adjusting the dosage” to prevent an “unexpected recovery” before certain power-of-attorney documents were finalized.
At 12:20 PM, the front door unlocked.
Julian walked into the foyer, talking animatedly on his phone. “I need you at the house right now because—”
