Chapter 4 - The Lake Forest Estate
The iron gates of Arthur Vance’s Lake Forest estate stood slightly ajar, the heavy black bars scarred with fresh tire tracks. The morning fog was still clinging to the manicured lawns and the sprawling brick mansion at the end of the circular drive.
I sat in the passenger seat of Vincent’s black town car. Vincent himself was driving, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He hadn't spoken more than ten words since he picked me up outside a diner twenty miles away. The sight of him—older, heavier with responsibility, but bearing the same dangerous, coiled energy—felt like stepping back into a nightmare I thought I had woken from.
"He's not here," Vincent said, his voice gravelly and flat.
"How do you know?" I asked, looking up at the dark windows of the house.
"Because Arthur is a creature of habit," Vincent said, shifting the car into park. "If he was here, the security lights would be tripped, the alarm disarmed by his personal code at six sharp. The house is dead."
He killed the engine, but neither of us got out immediately. The silence inside the car was suffocating, charged with eighteen years of misplaced hatred, lies, and stolen time.
Vincent turned his head slowly to look at me. Up close, the lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been when we were young. "You didn't take it," he said. It wasn't a question anymore.
"I raised our son on grocery store discounts and rent-controlled apartments, Vincent," I said, my voice shaking with a sudden, violent surge of anger. "While you were paying a ghost account to clear your conscience, I was working two jobs so Noah could have new shoes for school. Don't sit here and ask me if I took your money."
Vincent flinched. He looked away, his jaw clenching so hard I thought his teeth might crack. "Arthur was like a father to me. When my old man died, Arthur managed every ledger, every handshake, every penny. He told me you wanted nothing to do with me. He told me every month that the transfer went through successfully." He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "He played us both. He used my guilt to line his own pockets for two decades."
"And now?" I asked. "Where is he?"
"Offshore," Vincent said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a folded manila folder. He tossed it onto my lap. "Last night, when I tore his office apart, I found his personal ledger hidden inside the wall safe. Not the corporate books—his private notes. Every wire transfer, every date, every destination account."
I opened the folder. Inside were photocopies of bank statements dating back to the month I left Chicago. There, typed in neat accountant's font, was my maiden name: Claire Moretti. And beneath it, routing numbers that led straight to an entity called Vance Holdings.
But as I flipped the pages, something else caught my eye. A sticky note handwritten in Arthur’s cramped, precise handwriting, dated just three weeks ago.
Moretti boy's academic standing confirmed. Harvard symposium invitation accepted. If Vincent sees the mother and the boy together, the ledger discrepancy will be exposed. Need to accelerate final asset transfer before audit.
My breath caught. "Vincent... Arthur didn't just steal from you. He knew about Noah."
Vincent’s head snapped toward me. "What?"
"Look at the date," I pointed to the sticky note. "Three weeks ago. Arthur didn't flee because you found out about the ghost account last night. He fled because he knew Noah got into Harvard, and he knew that sooner or later, our paths would cross. He orchestrated the whole thing. He wanted us to meet in that auditorium."
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Vincent stared at the paper, his dark eyes widening as the pieces clicked together. The realization didn't make him look relieved; it made him look lethal.
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