Chapter 8 - The Net Tightens
By 8:00 p.m., the rain had begun to fall over Chicago, slicking the black pavement of Lake Shore Drive and blurring the neon lights into smeared streaks of red and amber.
Ethan Ward sat behind his massive mahogany desk on the twenty-sixth floor of Whitman & Reed Capital, staring at his laptop screen with hollow, bloodshot eyes.
His world was disintegrating at terrifying speed.
Ten minutes ago, he had attempted to initiate an emergency wire transfer of fourteen million dollars from the firm’s Cayman subsidiary account to an anonymous numbered wallet in Zurich.
The screen had flashed a glaring red error code:
**TRANSACTION DECLINED: ACCOUNT FROZEN BY COURT ORDER — COOK COUNTY CHANCERY DIVISION.**
Ethan slammed his wireless mouse against the wall, shattering the plastic casing into pieces.
“Damn you, Claire!” he snarled into the empty room.
He grabbed his desk phone and dialed Madison’s room at Northwestern Memorial. The hospital operator came on the line, cool and robotic: *“I’m sorry, sir. Patient Madison Bell is under protective custody by order of the Chicago Police Department. No external calls are permitted.”*
Ethan dropped the receiver.
*Protective custody.*
The words hung in the air like a noose. Madison wasn't dead. Madison was awake. And if Madison was awake, she was talking.
His cell phone buzzed. It was an alert from the security gate of our private Lake Forest estate, thirty miles north in the affluent suburbs:
**RESIDENCE SECURITY SYSTEM ACCESSED: MASTER CODE — CLAIRE WARD.**
She was at the house.
A cold, desperate madness seized Ethan’s mind.
He didn't care about the offshore accounts anymore. He didn't care about the firm. He needed to get to Claire before the police secured an indictment. If he could force her to sign the emergency power of attorney, if he could make her withdraw the corporate fraud complaint, he could still catch a private charter flight from Midway Airport to Costa Rica before sunrise.
He opened his bottom desk drawer, pulled out a small, velvet-lined box containing an unregistered .380 semi-automatic pistol he had bought off a private client two years ago, and shoved it deep into the pocket of his cashmere overcoat.
He took the private executive elevator down to the underground garage, threw himself into his black Porsche Cayenne, and tore out into the rainy Chicago night, speeding north along the expressway toward Lake Forest.
He drove like a madman, weaving through traffic, his wipers slapping violently against the windshield. In his twisted mind, this was all Claire’s fault. If she had just eaten the damn casserole like a dutiful, obedient wife, she would have died quietly. Madison would have aborted her baby quietly under Ethan’s instructions. He would have been a wealthy, respected widower, free to conquer the financial world.
Instead, Claire had defied him. She had given the food away. She had dared to challenge him in front of the board.
“Stupid, arrogant bitch,” he muttered under his breath, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel. “Your father couldn't stop me, and neither will you.”
At 9:15 p.m., the Porsche roared through the wrought-iron gates of the Ward estate, tires spraying gravel across the manicured driveway.
The massive limestone mansion, nestled among ancient oak trees near the bluffs of Lake Michigan, was dark, save for the warm, amber glow spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private library on the ground floor.
Ethan killed the engine. The rain beat down on the metal roof like drumfire.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the cold, checkered grip of the pistol. He slipped out of the car, clicked the safety off beneath the fabric of his coat, and walked up the broad stone steps.
The front door was unlocked.
Ethan pushed it open. The vast marble foyer was silent, smelling faintly of lavender floor polish and the damp, chill autumn air blowing through an open terrace door.
“Claire?” he called out, his voice echoing up the grand curved staircase.
No answer.
He walked with silent, measured steps across the foyer, his leather soles squeaking against the wet stone, toward the library doors.
He pushed the double mahogany doors open.
I was sitting in my father’s high-backed burgundy leather wing chair beside the roaring stone fireplace. I wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers, a warm mug of chamomile tea resting in my hands.
On the low cherrywood table between us lay three manila folders, an audio recording device, and a single sheet of paper: an irrevocable confession and resignation of all corporate titles.
I didn't flinch when Ethan stepped into the room. I slowly took a sip of tea, set the porcelain mug down, and looked up at him.
May you like
“You’re late, Ethan,” I said calmly. “The traffic on the Edens Expressway must have been dreadful in this rain.”
***
