Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the Machine
Three days after Arthur Vance’s arrest, the dust began to settle, but the silence in the Whitfield estate felt heavier than ever.
The media was in a frenzy. Headlines blared across every major financial network: WHITFIELD CAPITAL CEO SURVIVES MURDER PLOT, BOARDROOM ARRESTS SHAKE WALL STREET.
I sat in my library, staring at the cracked screen of my old phone, which was now mounted in a plastic evidence bag. The text message still burned in my mind: ‘DON’T LET ELISE MARRY HIM. ASK HER ABOUT THE WEST GATE.’
Martin walked into the room, dropping a thick Manila folder onto my desk.
“Vance is in federal custody, refusing to speak without a plea bargain,” Martin reported. “Elise has been formally charged as an accessory to attempted murder and corporate espionage. Her bail was denied.”
“And Daniel Voss?” I asked.
“Voss is playing tough, but his digital footprint is unraveling,” Martin said. “However, Ethan... we found something strange in Voss’s encrypted cell phone records.”
I leaned forward. “What?”
“The text message that saved your life—the one sent to your phone while you were lying on the marble—it didn’t come from inside the house. And it didn’t come from Vance or Elise.”
“I know,” I said. “It came from an untraceable Swiss server. Have you identified the owner of the server?”
Martin took a deep breath. “The server isn’t owned by a person, Ethan. It’s owned by a legacy trust created twenty-five years ago. A trust established by your mother.”
I froze. My breath caught in my throat.
“My mother?” I stammered. “My mother died when I was five years old. She died in a car crash in Geneva.”
“That’s what the public records say,” Martin said carefully. “But the trust account has been active every single month for the last two decades. And forty-eight hours ago, three million dollars were transferred from that trust into Grace Parker’s personal bank account.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
I stared at Martin, trying to process the words. Grace?
May you like
“Grace?” I repeated, my voice dropping an octave. “Grace has been working here for three years. She earns fifty thousand dollars a year. Why would a Swiss trust linked to my mother transfer millions to her?”
“I don’t know,” Martin admitted grimly. “But I just checked her quarters in the staff wing. Her room is completely empty, Ethan. Grace Parker is gone.”
