Chapter 8 - The Empty Chair
The blue light from the glowing monitors washed over Jonathan Vance’s motionless form, casting eerie shadows across the mahogany desk.
I froze on the threshold of the study, my heart hammering against my ribs. Arthur stepped in front of me instinctively, his hand raised to halt the security team behind us. The lead operative swept the room, his tactical flashlight cutting through the dim corners before he holstered his weapon and knelt beside the desk.
He pressed two fingers against Jonathan’s carotid artery, then looked up at Arthur and shook his head.
“He’s gone, Mr. Sterling,” the operative said grimly. “No pulse. Body is still warm, but there’s no sign of a struggle.”
I pushed past the guard and stepped into the room, my eyes locking onto the computer screen on the desk. The encryption progress bar had stopped dead at ninety-nine percent. A pulsing red error message blinked across the center monitor: TRANSACTION INTERRUPTED. SYSTEM LOCKED.
“Look at his coffee cup,” Arthur muttered, pointing down at a ceramic mug sitting right beside the keyboard. A thin, crystalline residue coated the rim.
“Poison,” I whispered, a cold shiver running down my spine. “Someone was here before us.”
“Or someone was waiting for him right after he initiated the final transfer,” Arthur corrected, pulling out a pair of white latex gloves from his pocket and carefully examining the desk. He lifted a small, discarded flash drive resting beside the keyboard. “The master encryption keys aren't on this local hard drive. Whoever poisoned him didn't just want him dead—they wanted the keys.”
“Which means the person who orchestrated the entire betrayal from the shadows is still out there,” I said, clenching my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms. “Jonathan was just a pawn. A greedy, ambitious pawn who thought he was calling the shots.”
My phone buzzed in my hand.
It wasn't an encrypted call this time. It was a standard text message from an unknown, local number.
I looked down at the screen. The message contained a single address—an abandoned industrial warehouse down by the Baltimore docks—followed by a short sentence:
If you want to know who really built West Enterprises, come alone.
I stared at the screen, the memories of seven years ago flooding back with a sudden, violent intensity. The damp Baltimore apartment. The cold winter nights. The desperate man I had married believing he had a brilliant vision, when in reality, every step of his journey had been meticulously engineered by forces he never even understood.
“Rosalie, don't look at me like that,” Arthur said, noticing the shift in my expression. “That text is a trap. It’s an obvious invitation back into a corner.”
“It’s not a trap, Arthur,” I said quietly, slipping my phone back into my pocket. “It’s an invitation to finish this. The Baltimore docks... that’s where Garrett and I started. That’s where the very first seed agreement was signed.”
“You cannot go down there alone,” Arthur insisted, his voice rising with alarm. “Federal authorities have already picked up Garrett and Albright. Let the police handle the rest of the network.”
“The police don't know the full history,” I replied, turning toward the door. “And if I don't answer this, whoever is pulling the strings will liquidate every remaining asset my family owns within the hour. Call the local authorities to secure Jonathan’s estate and process the scene. I’m going to Baltimore.”
“Rosalie—!”
“Stay here, Arthur,” I commanded, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Keep our digital firewall active. If I’m not back by sunrise, release the master dossier to the federal prosecutor.”
I didn't wait for his reply. I turned and walked out of the study, descending the grand staircase into the cool night air.
Forty-five minutes later, my black sedan pulled off the highway, rolling past the rusted, decaying iron gates of the old Baltimore industrial harbor. The salt air smelled of oil and dead fish, the fog rolling in thickly off the dark water, obscuring the skeletal frames of the abandoned shipping warehouses.
I parked near Pier 42, cut the engine, and stepped out into the biting wind.
Ahead of me stood Warehouse 7—the exact building where Garrett had supposedly launched his first tech startup seven years ago, the place where I had first secretly funneled my family’s money to keep him afloat.
The heavy sliding door of the warehouse was cracked open by two feet, a pale, flickering yellow light spilling out from the darkness within.
May you like
I took a deep breath, slipped my hand into my coat pocket around the handle of a small, legal defense pistol Arthur had insisted I carry, and walked straight toward the gap in the door.
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