Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
The next forty-eight hours transformed Morrison Estates into a silent theater of war. To the outside world, everything appeared normal. My executive assistant, Sarah, managed my calendar at the Manhattan headquarters while I worked from my home study, keeping a hawk-eye on the financial routing numbers Annie and I had set up.
We had coordinated with a private cyber-forensics team I trusted implicitly—men and women who worked under strict corporate confidentiality agreements. They traced Miss Higgins's digital footprints, confirming that she was operating out of an upscale apartment in Stamford, Connecticut, and that she was desperate for the cash injection she demanded.
On Thursday evening, the trap snapped shut on the digital end.
I sat at my heavy mahogany desk in the home study, the glowing monitors illuminating my face in the dark room. My phone buzzed with an encrypted notification from our lead security contractor: Funds pinged at a local receiving node in Stamford. Subject is in motion. ETA to your Westchester estate: ninety minutes.
I stood up, buttoned my suit jacket, and walked out of the study.
The house was quiet. Upstairs, Annie had managed to put Jordan and Justin to bed without a single tear. For the first time in over a year, they had fallen asleep listening to a story Annie read to them from an old, dog-eared book of fairy tales, rather than the toxic, synthesized white noise of Miss Higgins's hidden recorder.
I found Annie in the kitchen, quietly wiping down the counters. She looked up as I entered, her eyes asking the unspoken question.
"She's on her way," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Arriving in about an hour. Security has the gates locked down. The local precinct has been briefed discreetly through a personal contact of mine; they'll have an unmarked cruiser parked down the access road, ready to move in the moment we give the signal."
Annie nodded, setting the sponge down. "And the boys?"
"Asleep. Soundly." I let out a long, ragged breath, running a hand through my hair. "Annie... what happens after tonight? If Miss Higgins goes down, and the truth comes out... what does that mean for us? For this house?"
Annie walked over to the kitchen island, her expression softening. "It means you start over, Mr. Morrison. You tear down the shrines. You take down Lauren's portraits from every single room and keep just one—a good one—in the family room where she belongs. You stop paying strangers to love your children, and you start doing it yourself."
Before I could answer, the motion sensor on the front security monitor on the kitchen wall blinked red.
Front Gate: Vehicle Approaching.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but this time, there was no panic—only cold, sharp resolve.
May you like
"Showtime," I muttered.
"Remember," Annie said, touching my arm lightly as I turned toward the foyer. "Let her talk. Let her dig her own grave. And whatever you do... don't lose your temper until the trap is fully sprung."
