Chapter 8 - Daniel's Desperation
Twenty-four hours before the sheriff was scheduled to execute the eviction order, Daniel appeared outside Grant Property Group’s corporate headquarters.
It was sleeting again. He didn't have an umbrella. He stood on the sidewalk of Michigan Avenue in a soaked cashmere overcoat, clutching a manila envelope against his chest like a shield. He didn't try to cross the five-hundred-foot boundary established by the restraining order; Marcus King and two security officers stood under the building awning, watching him with watchful eyes.
When I stepped out of the lobby at five o’clock, flanked by Ryan and Arthur Vance, Daniel stepped to the absolute edge of the imaginary line on the concrete.
“Olivia!” he shouted through the howling wind. “Just two minutes! That’s all I’m asking! I have something that clears you completely of any secondary liabilities!”
I stopped. Ryan put a hand on my forearm. “Liv, don't. He’s drowning. He’ll pull you down with him.”
“Wait here,” I told Ryan.
I walked to within ten feet of Daniel. Marcus took two steps behind me, his hand resting casually inside his suit jacket.
Daniel looked atrocious. His skin was pasty, his lips blue from the cold. He had lost at least seven pounds in four days. The arrogant, charming investment banker who had wined and dined me at the Peninsula Hotel had vanished entirely.
“What do you want, Daniel?” I asked.
He held out the manila envelope with trembling, rain-slicked fingers. “It’s Barbara’s offshore accounts. The ones in the Cayman Islands and Liechtenstein. She kept six million dollars hidden from the bankruptcy filings. She was planning to use it to flee to Switzerland as soon as the federal indictments dropped.”
I didn't reach for the envelope. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because she’s leaving me behind, Liv,” Daniel whispered, his voice breaking into a dry, hollow sob. “She hired her own criminal defense attorney this morning using the offshore money. She told the lawyers that I was the managing director of Whitmore Capital—that I was the one who signed the fraudulent loan guarantees. She’s pinning the entire federal case on me so she can plead out to a misdemeanor and keep her European assets.”
The poetic justice of it was staggering.
Barbara Whitmore, who had preached family loyalty, lineage, and the sacred unity of the Whitmore name from the country club podium, was sacrificing her only son to save her own skin.
“You helped her do this to Evelyn Cross,” I reminded him, my voice completely devoid of pity. “You stood by while your mother destroyed that family. You sat in that conference room and watched her force Evelyn’s father into a stroke.”
Daniel flinched. He looked down at the slush pooling around his expensive Italian leather loafers.
“I know,” he whispered. “I was weak. I’ve been weak my entire life. She controlled my trust fund, my career, my friends... she told me who I could date and who I couldn't. When I met you, Olivia, I thought... I thought you were my way out. You were so strong. You didn't take crap from anyone. I wanted to be like you.”
“No, Daniel,” I said. “You didn't want to be like me. You wanted to consume me. You wanted my strength, my balance sheet, and my father’s reputation to cover up your cowardice.”
He held the envelope out further. “Take it. Please. Give it to Arthur. Give it to the FBI. Just... tell the US Attorney that I cooperated. Tell them I gave you the keys to her offshore accounts. If I go to a maximum-security prison, Liv, I won't survive. You know I won't.”
I looked at the envelope, then signaled Marcus.
Marcus stepped forward, took the envelope from Daniel’s shaking hands, checked it for any hazardous materials, and handed it to me.
“I will give this to Arthur,” I said. “Arthur will turn it over to the Department of Justice. What the federal prosecutors choose to do with your sentence is entirely up to them.”
Daniel let out a ragged breath that looked like smoke in the freezing air. “Thank you, Liv. Thank you.”
He took a half-step forward, his eyes desperately searching mine for any lingering trace of affection.
“Do you remember,” he whispered, “that night in Galena? When the snow trapped us at that bed and breakfast? We sat by the fire, and you told me about your father’s dream for the logistics hubs. You smiled. I had never seen you look so happy. Did any of that mean anything to you? Or was I just a lie to you too?”
I looked at him through the falling sleet.
“The woman who sat by the fire in Galena was real, Daniel,” I said. “She loved you with everything she had. She was ready to build a life, a family, and a future with you.”
A flicker of light returned to his eyes.
“But the man she loved never existed,” I added softly. “You were just an actor playing a part scripted by your mother. And the play closed on Saturday night.”
I turned on my heel and walked back toward my car.
May you like
Behind me, Daniel stood alone on the freezing sidewalk of Michigan Avenue, the rain washing away the last remnants of the Whitmore dynasty as the city traffic roared past him.
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