Chapter 6 - THE LION'S DEN
I stared at the text message, the words blurring together.
Your husband isn't in Portland. He's at the firm.
"Angela," I handed her my phone, my hands shaking. "Read this."
Angela scanned the screen, her brow furrowing. "Who sent this?"
"I don't know. But if Ryan is at the firm, and he has the briefcase with the forged documents..."
"He's pushing the transfer through early," Angela finished, standing up abruptly. She pointed a finger at a still-sobbing Sarah. "You write down a full confession. Every detail of Ryan asking you to notarize that forgery. Sign it and date it. I’ll send a courier for it in twenty minutes."
We practically ran out of the bank. The rain had started to fall in heavy, gray sheets, matching the sudden, suffocating panic in my chest.
"We're going to his office," I said as I climbed into the passenger seat.
"Claire, wait," Angela gripped the steering wheel, looking at me seriously. "If Ryan is initiating a multi-million dollar offshore transfer on a Friday afternoon, he's bypassing standard security protocols. He's doing it directly from Arthur's terminal. If we walk in there, he will know you're onto him. He could destroy the documents before we even get into the room."
"I don't care," I said, my voice hardening. "I have my acceptance email to the school in Singapore sitting in my inbox. If I don't clear my name today, I lose my career. I lose my freedom. Drive."
Bancroft & Hayes occupied the top three floors of the tallest skyscraper in downtown Seattle. Because Ryan was a senior analyst and I was his wife, the security guards in the lobby recognized me and waved me through the turnstiles without a second glance.
Angela and I rode the elevator in suffocating silence.
The doors opened on the 50th floor. The office was mostly empty; it was past 6:00 PM on a Friday. The only sound was the hum of the servers and the distant rattle of the rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass.
We moved quietly down the carpeted hallway toward the executive suites.
Ryan's office was dark.
I panicked for a second, thinking the text message was a lie. But then I saw a sliver of light spilling out from the double doors at the very end of the hall.
Uncle Arthur's office.
I crept toward the slightly ajar doors, Angela right behind me. I pressed my back against the wall and peered through the crack.
Ryan was sitting at Arthur's massive mahogany desk. His suit jacket was off, his tie discarded on the floor. He was typing frantically on the keyboard, his face illuminated by the harsh glow of the monitor.
Sitting on the desk next to his elbow was the leather briefcase.
"He's doing it," Angela whispered in my ear. "He's bypassing the security tokens."
I didn't wait. I pushed the heavy oak doors open.
"Hello, Ryan," I said, my voice ringing loud and clear in the cavernous office.
Ryan jumped violently, his chair rolling back so fast it slammed into the credenza behind him. He stared at me, his eyes wide with genuine shock.
"Claire?" he gasped, his gaze darting nervously between the computer screen and my face. "What... what are you doing here? You're supposed to be at your mother's."
"And you're supposed to be in Portland with Madison," I countered smoothly, walking confidently into the room. "But Madison is currently being escorted out of The Grand Meridian by hotel security. Apparently, using a fake ID and my grandmother's necklace to impersonate me is frowned upon."
The color drained completely from Ryan's face. The charming, arrogant man from the anniversary party was gone, replaced by a terrified, cornered boy.
"You went to the hotel," he breathed, panic rising in his voice. He lunged toward the keyboard, his hand hovering over the mouse.
"Don't click submit, Ryan," Angela stepped into the room, holding her phone up, the camera lens pointed directly at him. "I'm a licensed attorney. I am currently recording you at a restricted executive terminal. If you push that transfer through, I will have the FBI here in five minutes for corporate espionage and wire fraud."
Ryan froze. His hand hovered over the mouse, trembling violently.
"You don't understand," he pleaded, looking at me with desperate, tear-filled eyes. "Claire, baby, please. Uncle Arthur is going to audit my accounts on Monday. I lost the money. I made bad trades. If I don't move this cash offshore tonight, I'm going to prison."
"No, Ryan," I said, walking up to the desk. I looked down at him, feeling absolutely nothing but cold disgust. "If you move that money, I go to prison. Because you put the LLC in my name. You forged my signature."
Ryan flinched as if I had struck him. "I had to! I needed a clean name, and you never look at the finances!"
"Where is the original document?" I demanded, pointing at the leather briefcase. "Open it."
"Claire, I can fix this," he begged, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'll take your name off the LLC. I'll take the blame. Just let me finish the transfer so I have money to run. Please. For the ten years we spent together."
The audacity of his plea almost made me laugh. He was still trying to manipulate me.
Before I could answer, the heavy oak doors behind us clicked shut.
A slow, rhythmic clapping echoed through the office.
I spun around.
Standing in the shadows by the door was a tall, older man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He had sharp, hawkish features and silver hair.
Uncle Arthur.
"Bravo, Ryan," Arthur said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "A spectacular performance of pathetic cowardice."
Ryan let out a choked gasp. "Uncle Arthur... I thought you were in New York."
"I was," Arthur stepped fully into the light, his cold eyes locking onto Ryan. "Until someone tipped me off that my idiot nephew was trying to rob me blind."
Answer one: The unknown text message came from Arthur. He had known Ryan was at the firm.Open two: If Arthur knew, why did he let Ryan get this far?
Arthur walked slowly toward the desk. He didn't look at Ryan. He looked directly at me.
"I received your text, Mrs. Sterling," Arthur said, extending a hand to me.
I stared at him, bewildered. "I didn't text you."
Arthur frowned. He pulled his phone from his pocket, showing me the screen. The message read: Arthur, it's Claire. Ryan is at the office stealing the offshore funds. Stop him.
It was sent from my phone number. But my phone had been in my pocket the entire time.
My blood ran ice cold.
The burner phone in Ryan's coat. Madison.
Madison had cloned my number to text Arthur, framing me as the whistleblower who was present at the scene of the crime, ensuring Arthur caught us both in the office together.
May you like
Arthur looked at the computer screen, then at the leather briefcase, and finally, his cold, calculating gaze settled on me.
"Well, Claire," Arthur said, a chilling smile touching his lips. "Since your name is on the LLC receiving the stolen funds, and you are standing right in front of the terminal transferring them... it looks like I just caught my embezzler red-handed."
