Chapter 3 - The Shadows of Dock 4
The silence in the library grew so heavy that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway sounded like a countdown timer.
Nolan reached for the blue folders, but I closed the briefcase instantly, locking the brass latches with a loud snap.
“Brielle, please,” Nolan begged, his hands shaking as he reached toward me.
“We can fix this, we can talk to the investors, we can handle this quietly without involving the feds.”
“You didn't want to handle things quietly when you were standing in this room wishing for my death, Nolan,” I said, my finger tapping the black recorder in my pocket.
Marlene stepped forward, her pearls clicking together as she tried to use her height to intimidate me.
“You think that little recording will hold up in court after you just spent a week on heavy hallucinogenic sedatives in the ICU?” Marlene mocked, her voice regaining its sharp, cutting edge.
“The court won't just look at the recording, Marlene,” a new voice spoke from the library doorway.
Nolan and Marlene snapped their heads around to see Detective Marcus Thorne standing in the shadows of the walnut shelves, his badge glittering under the hall light.
I had called Marcus at 5:30 a.m. from the hospital parking lot, knowing exactly what kind of crime scene I would find when I opened my front door.
“Mrs. Hart,” Detective Thorne said, walking into the room with unhurried, clinical precision.
“Your son’s logistics company operates out of Dock 4 at the Chicago port, a sector currently under federal investigation for illegal asset movement.”
Marlene’s face turned an ugly, sickly shade of grey as the detective pulled a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt.
“We’ve been tracking the three million dollars for two months,” Thorne continued, looking down at the party guest list scattered across my desk.
“We just needed the primary account holder—your daughter-in-law—to wake up and give us the authorization to access the private server logs.”
Nolan fell back against the file cabinets, his hands covering his face as he realized his mother had used his entire life's work as a financial shield.
“You used me,” Nolan whispered through his fingers, looking up at Marlene with pure betrayal.
Marlene didn't look at him; she kept her eyes fixed on me, her expression twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
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“You think you’ve won, Brielle?” Marlene whispered, stepping toward the door as Thorne took her arm.
“This house is still buried under the debt I created, and by tomorrow morning, the banks will come to collect every single brick.”
