Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in Rose Hill
The visitor’s room at the Rose M. Singer Center at Rikers Island smelled of industrial floor wax, old coffee, and stale bleach.
I sat behind a scratched plexiglass partition, waiting.
Three minutes later, the heavy steel door clicked open. A female correctional officer led Fallon into the small booth.
The girl who stepped through that door bore almost no resemblance to the glamorous lifestyle influencer who had walked down the aisle in a $50,000 custom gown two weeks ago.
Fallon wore a oversized grey institutional jumpsuit. Her blonde hair was greasy, pulled back into a messy bun with a rubber band. Her skin was sallow, devoid of foundation or lighting filters. Her eyes were red, swollen, and surrounded by deep, dark circles of exhaustion and fear.
She sat down on the metal stool, her hands shaking as she picked up the plastic telephone receiver.
I picked up mine.
"Sloan?" Fallon’s voice cracked through the small speaker, thin and wet with tears. "Did... did you come to post my bail? Please, Sloan... I can't stay here... the women in here... they know what I did... they call me 'Acid Girl'... someone threw hot water on me in the shower yesterday..."
I looked at her through the glass. My face was still covered by a neat, skin-colored silicone scar-reduction pad.
"I didn't come to post your bail, Fallon," I said softly.
Fallon began to cry, slamming her hand against the plastic frame. "Then why are you here?! To gloat?! To watch me suffer?! You've won, Sloan! You destroyed my marriage! You destroyed my channel! My life is over!"
"Did you know where the $1.1 million came from, Fallon?" I asked, my tone utterly devoid of heat.
Fallon stopped crying, her eyes wavering. "What... what $1.1 million?"
"The offshore deposits into Ward Creative Media LLC over the last eight months," I said. "The wires from the Cayman Islands account."
Fallon swallowed hard, looking down at the metal table. "Miles told me... he told me it was an angel investment for my brand... from a group of European fashion investors..."
"It wasn't fashion investors, Fallon," I said. "It was Richard Sterling and Marcus Vance. The money came from a fraud fund at Vanguard-Apex."
Fallon looked up, her expression genuinely blank, lost in a fog of ignorance. "What... what are you talking about?"
"They used you," I said gently, almost with pity. "Richard Sterling knew I was auditing the Reynolds Acquisition. He knew if I found the $80 million shortfall, he would go to federal prison. He hired Marcus to find a way to destroy my reputation so Vanguard-Apex could fire me for cause before I filed a SEC report."
Fallon’s mouth opened slightly. "No... no, Miles said... Miles said if we made a video showing you looking crazy and bitter at the wedding, his uncle would get me a permanent TV hosting job on E! Network..."
"They gave you a glass of unbuffered trichloroacetic acid, Fallon," I stated, leaning closer to the glass. "They told you it was a cosmetic peel. But they knew if you threw it in my face, I would hit Mom, the video would go viral, and I would be fired."
Tears began spilling down Fallon’s cheeks, but this time, they were not the performative tears of an influencer. They were the cold, terrifying tears of a child who had realized she had stepped into a bear trap set by adults.
"They... they used me?" she whispered.
"They gave you the chemical, Fallon," I said. "Where did you get the glass?"
"Miles," Fallon sobbed, clutching the phone wire with white knuckles. "Miles brought the glass to the bridal suite twenty minutes before the ceremony. He told me to keep it hidden under the dressing table until the music stopped. He said... he said it was a non-toxic dramatic effect that would turn your face red for an hour so the camera could capture your 'jealous reaction'..."
"Miles gave you the glass?"
"Yes! I swear to God, Sloan! I swear on Father’s grave! Miles filled the glass himself from a dark brown bottle he brought in his briefcase!"
I stared at her for five seconds, verifying her micro-expressions.
She wasn't lying about this. She was far too self-centered to have engineered an industrial chemical attack on her own. She was the execution hand; Miles Vance and Richard Sterling were the brains.
"Fallon," I said, my voice cutting through her panic like a scalpel.
"What?" she gasped.
"If you want to spend the next seven years in a maximum-security state penitentiary for felony chemical assault, keep covering for Miles," I said. "If you want a plea deal that gives you probation and community service, you are going to call Deputy Sheriff Davis in ten minutes, and you are going to give a full sworn deposition detailing every word Miles Vance said to you in that bridal suite."
Fallon wiped her nose with her sleeve, her hand trembling violently. "Will... will you help me get out of here if I do that?"
"I won't help you, Fallon," I said, standing up from my stool. "But I will make sure the people who handed you that chemical pay for the damage done to my face."
I hung up the receiver.
I turned and walked out of the visitation room, leaving Fallon crying against the partition.
As I walked out into the cold New York air, I pulled out my phone and dialed the direct line for the Special Investigations Division of the Manhattan District Attorney's Office.
May you like
"District Attorney's Office, Chief Investigator Miller."
"Investigator Miller," I said, stepping into my waiting car. "This is Sloan Ward. I have the master key to the $80 million Reynolds Acquisition fraud—and the attempted murder plot behind it."
