Chapter 6 - THE BRIELLE INTERCEPTION
By Thursday evening, the storm outside had turned into a torrential downpour, flooding the Dallas streets and turning the evening commute into a snarled gridlock of red taillights.
Lucas and I sat in his sedan parked two blocks away from Brielle Knox’s high-rise luxury apartment building in Uptown Dallas.
“Are you sure she’ll be home?” Lucas asked, wiping condensation off the passenger-side window to keep eyes on the lobby entrance.
“Dean spent the entire afternoon locked in his executive office at Redstone, screaming at Harold Miller—who conveniently stopped answering his phone around noon,” I said, watching the rain streak down the glass. “Brielle hasn't answered Dean’s calls either. She knows the eight hundred thousand dollars hasn't cleared her Swiss account yet, and she’s starting to panic.”
Just then, a sleek white sports car pulled up illegally in front of the apartment lobby.
The passenger door swung open, and Brielle Knox stepped out under a large black umbrella. She looked immaculate, wearing a tailored winter coat and designer boots, but her movements were rushed, frantic, and tense.
She pushed through the glass doors of the lobby.
“That’s our window,” Lucas said, putting the car in gear.
“Wait five minutes,” I instructed calmly. “Let her get settled in her apartment. Let the panic set in a little deeper.”
When we finally rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, our shoes made no sound on the plush hallway carpet.
I didn't knock.
I used the master override keycard Harold Miller had nervously provided us that afternoon—a universal security pass that gave us access to every executive-leased apartment in the portfolio.
Beep.
The door clicked open.
Brielle was standing in her high-end kitchen, holding a glass of white wine so tightly I thought the stem would snap in her fingers. Her phone was pressed to her ear, and she was pacing across the hardwood floor.
“No, Mr. Vance, I’m telling you the transfer hasn't hit my routing number yet!” Brielle shrieked into the phone, her voice shrill with panic. “Dean promised me the funds would clear the moment Marissa signed the papers tomorrow morning! If the deal falls through, I’m exposed! I’m the one who forged the vendor receipts!”
She stopped dead in her tracks as the front door swung fully open.
Her phone slipped from her hand, crashing onto the marble kitchen floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass.
She stared at us in absolute terror.
“Marissa…?” she whispered, her face draining of all color.
May you like
I stepped into the apartment, closing the door quietly behind me. Lucas followed, sliding a digital voice recorder onto the kitchen island right beside her half-empty wine glass.
“Good evening, Brielle,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm as I walked toward her across the spotless floor. “I believe you were just talking about my husband... and Arthur Vance.”
