Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT BRIEFING
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle by the time my car pulled into the circular driveway of our suburban estate in Winnetka.
The house looked dark and imposing against the night sky, its sprawling brick facade and manicured hedges projecting an image of stable, unshakeable wealth that hadn't been true for months. For years, Grant had insisted on keeping the mortgage under a commercial liability trust to protect his business capital, a legal maneuver he thought gave him absolute control. He had never bothered to read the secondary addendum I added during our tenth anniversary—the one that transferred primary survivorship and dissolution rights to my personal holding account in the event of documented corporate malfeasance.
I unlocked the front door, stepped into the marble foyer, and dropped my car keys onto the silver tray on the mahogany console table.
Waiting for me in the dimly lit study down the hall was Marcus Vance, my cousin and senior partner at Vance & Associates Forensic Accounting, sitting behind Grant’s executive desk with an open laptop and a half-empty mug of black coffee.
“Did he take the bait?” Marcus asked without looking up from the screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced speed.
“He tried to bribe the restaurant manager for ten thousand dollars to file a false police report claiming I was intoxicated and unstable,” I said, walking into the study and hanging my damp coat on the brass rack by the door. “Sloane was right there cheering him on.”
Marcus stopped typing, leaned back in the leather chair, and let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Amateur hour. Did he really think a commercial leaseholder like Simon would risk a five-year contract for pocket change?”
“He’s desperate, Marcus,” I said, walking over to the wet bar and pouring myself a glass of sparkling water. “When you spend twenty years convincing yourself you’re the smartest man in the room, you stop noticing when the floorboards have been sawed through.”
Marcus spun his laptop around so the screen faced me. Rows of financial data, wire transfer logs, and corporate restructuring diagrams filled the display.
“The forensic audit is complete,” Marcus said, his tone turning strictly professional. “We’ve tracked three million dollars in embezzled municipal funds from the North Side redevelopment project directly into Sloane’s offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. And worse for Grant—fifty percent of that money was funneled through a shell company where Grant listed himself as the sole managing director.”
I sipped the sparkling water, letting the cold bubbles settle my nerves. “Does the state prosecutor have the hard copies yet?”
“Emailed securely to District Attorney Miller ten minutes ago,” Marcus said, tapping the edge of the laptop. “Along with the audio recording of Grant offering Simon the ten-thousand-dollar bribe at Bellwether. Thanks to the smart-pen you slipped into your handbag liner, we captured every word in crystal-clear stereo.”
I walked over to the desk and picked up a small, silver-plated pen resting near the blotter. It looked like an ordinary fountain pen Grant had given me for our anniversary three years ago, engraved with the initials E.P.
“He always said I had no head for business,” I murmured, tracing the metal clip with my thumb. “He thought buying me jewelry and letting me plan the Christmas parties was enough to keep me quiet while he looted the firm my inheritance built.”
Before Marcus could answer, the crunch of gravel echoed from the driveway outside.
Headlights swept across the tall study windows, casting long, jittery shadows against the mahogany bookshelves. A sleek black sedan pulled up sharply behind my car, its engine revving before dying in a sudden, breathless stall.
A moment later, heavy footsteps pounded against the front porch steps, followed by a violent, frantic hammering on the oak front door.
“Evelyn!” Grant’s voice roared through the wood, muffled and hysterical. “Open the door! I know you’re in there! Open this damn door right now!”
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Marcus stood up, his hand resting on his phone. “Do you want me to call local dispatch?”
“No,” I said, walking slowly toward the foyer, my navy silk dress rustling with every step. “Let him in. It’s time we reviewed the family budget.”
