Chapter 6 - The Sound of Breaking Glass
The heavy oak door rattled under Ryan’s frantic, open-palmed blows, the sound echoing through Arthur Vance’s quiet law office like rolling thunder.
“Mom, please! Open the door!” Ryan’s voice cracked, dissolving into a ragged sob. “Marcus left me to take the fall! The feds are already auditing the firm’s main accounts, and they found my name on the wire transfer logs!”
I stood frozen near the tall Victorian windows, my fingers digging into the leather strap of my purse. Arthur lowered the heavy brass letter opener he had been holding, his eyes fixed on the doorknob as it shook violently.
“Margaret,” Arthur whispered, his voice tense. “If you let him in, you invite a desperate man into a secured legal zone. If he’s being tracked by federal investigators, they could be right behind him.”
“He’s my son, Arthur,” I said, though my voice felt hollow, stripped of warmth by the crushing weight of betrayal.
Before Arthur could reply, the frantic hammering stopped abruptly.
Silence rushed into the room—a thick, heavy quiet that felt far more dangerous than Ryan’s crying.
“Ryan?” I called out cautiously, taking a step toward the office door.
No answer.
Then came the unmistakable sound of heavy leather boots stomping down the carpeted hallway toward the reception desk, accompanied by flashing blue and red emergency strobes bleeding through the frosted glass windows of the outer office.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Federal Bureau of Investigation! Open up!” a booming voice commanded from the outer foyer.
Arthur’s eyes widened. He strode across the room, unlocked our office door, and pulled it open just as two armed agents in black tactical vests stepped into the hallway, flanking a pale, trembling Ryan whose wrists were already secured behind his back in plastic zip-ties.
Ryan locked eyes with me, his face stained with tears and dust.
“Mom…” he choked out, his knees buckling slightly before the agents caught his arms. “Tell them I didn't know about the offshore accounts. Tell them Vanessa made me do it!”
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Before I could answer, a tall, sharp-featured woman in a dark federal suit stepped past the agents, holding a leather badge case open in her palm.
“Special Agent Ramos, FBI Financial Crimes Division,” she said, her gaze darting from Arthur to me, and finally resting on the twenty-million-dollar lottery ticket lying exposed on Arthur’s desk. “Mrs. Margaret Thomas? We need you to come with us immediately. Marcus Vance has just been picked up trying to board a private flight to the Cayman Islands—and he’s trading your son’s name for a reduced sentence.”
