“I am calling the security team,” Grant said. “They will be there in four hours.”
“No,” I said. “Do not call the local police. If Russell sees flashing lights, he will use it to claim I am unstable. He is trying to take her from me legally, and he will use any excuse he can find.”
“He will not take anything from you,” Grant said. “I will personally see to that.”
“I want more than that, Grant,” I said.
I stood up, stepping away from Phoebe so my voice would not disturb her fitful sleep. The blue light of the screen illuminated the damp patches on my dress.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“Grant, I am officially done pretending to be poor, submissive, and grateful.”
The words felt heavy in my mouth, but they carried a strange, cold weight that I had not felt in six years. I was no longer the girl who wanted to prove she could survive on her own.
“The Vaughn public offering is in three weeks,” I said. “He has leveraged everything on it. His debts are massive, and he has hidden millions in toxic accounts.”
“We have the audit from the Charlotte office,” Grant continued, his voice steady but carrying that low, dangerous vibration. “Russell has been moving funds into offshore accounts in Nassau to cover his personal losses. Gwendolyn’s name is on three of the transfers.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Enough to trigger a federal investigation if we release the ledger,” Grant said. “But I think you want to handle this differently.”
“I want him to see it fall apart piece by piece,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper as I looked back at Phoebe. “He needs to know exactly who took it from him.”
“Destroy him,” I said. “Take the company. Take the house. Take every single dollar he thinks he owns.”
“Arthur is already pulling up the financial records,” Grant said. “He says the primary six-million-dollar bank loan on the Vaughn estate is held by a shell company.”
“Who owns the shell?” I asked.
“We do,” Grant said. “Walton Holdings. We bought the debt three months ago when he started drowning.”
I touched my collarbone again, my fingers steady now. The trap had been set long before tonight, and Russell had walked right into it without ever looking down.
“How long until you can get here?” I asked.
“The jet is fueling now,” Grant said. “We will be on the ground in Chicago before dawn.”
“Bring Ronald,” I said. “I want the paperwork ready.”
“It is already done, Heather,” he said. “Just hold on for a few more hours.”
The line went dead with a quiet click.
I held the glowing screen to my chest, the signal connecting me to a world I had abandoned.
The light in the basement was the color of wet slate when the lock finally turned.
Beside me on the narrow cot, Phoebe stirred, rubbing her eyes with her small fist before her fingers tightened around the worn ear of her plush toy rabbit.
The fever had left her forehead warm, but the blood from the cut near her hairline had dried into a stiff, dark crescent against her skin.
I had used a piece of my own hem to bind the wound, the cotton now gray and damp from the cellar air.
Above us, the floorboards of the main house groaned under the weight of someone walking toward the kitchen stairs, the faint smell of expensive cedar wood drifting down through the floorboards.
It was exactly six o’clock when the heavy oak door swung inward, its iron hinges squeaking from the dampness.
