Chapter 5 - THE ESCAPE CLAUSE
The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting a harsh, buzzing shadow across Marcus’s face.
My fingers curled around the folded probate documents inside my coat pocket. The sharp edge of the paper cut into my palm, but the pain grounded me, burning away the paralyzing fear.
“You think you can just make me disappear, Marcus?” I asked, keeping my voice steady even as my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. “This is a municipal building. Cameras are recording every second of this hallway.”
Marcus let out a dry, chilling laugh.
“Do you honestly believe the night-shift security guard is going to question a directive from the Whitmore legal counsel? The feeds were wiped five minutes before I walked through that door.”
He stepped closer, closing the distance between us. The heavy, expensive scent of cedar and gunmetal washed over him. He wasn't bluffing. Marcus was the kind of man who didn't leave loose ends, and Vivian Whitmore didn't spend thirty years running the city's most ruthless corporate syndicate by playing fair.
I looked left, then right. The metal shelving units rose eight feet into the air, packed solid with heavy legal boxes. There was no climbing over them.
As Marcus reached out his hand—his long fingers inches from grabbing my coat lapel—I didn't run.
I threw a heavy stack of nineteenth-century property ledgers straight at his face.
The books exploded in a cloud of yellowed paper and choking dust, catching Marcus completely off guard. He stumbled back, cursing, swatting the tumbling volumes away from his eyes.
It was all the time I needed.
I dove under the wooden reading table, scrambled past his legs, and sprinted down the aisle toward the main vault exit.
“Get back here!” Marcus roared behind me.
Footsteps thundered against the floorboards—fast, heavy, and closing in fast.
I burst out of the basement vault and into the main corridor, my heels slipping on the polished linoleum. I didn't head for the front entrance—Marcus’s car was undoubtedly blocking the street. Instead, I veered toward the emergency service exit marked by a glowing red exit sign.
I slammed my shoulder against the push-bar.
The heavy metal door gave way with a loud, clanging alarm that shrieked into the damp, rainy night.
Cold rain hit my face like ice water as I plunged out into the alleyway behind the municipal building. I didn't look back. I ran through the puddles, my trench coat whipping around my legs, ducking behind a row of overflowing industrial trash bins just as Marcus burst through the emergency exit door, panting and scanning the dark alley with a flashlight.
“Mallory!” he yelled into the rain.
I pressed my back against the brick wall behind the dumpster, holding my breath, pressing my hand over my mouth to quiet the ragged sound of my breathing.
For three agonizing minutes, the beam of his flashlight swept back and forth across the wet asphalt, missing my hiding spot by inches.
Then, his radio crackled to life.
“Vance,” a sharp, distorted voice spoke through his receiver. “Get back to the mansion. Graham just called the cops. He panicked. The local precinct is dispatching units to the Beacon Hill house right now.”
Marcus cursed under his breath, snapped his flashlight off, and jogged back toward the front street.
May you like
I waited until the sound of his car engine faded into the rain. Then, trembling from head to toe, I pulled myself out of the alley and stepped back onto the deserted sidewalk.
I had the proof. I had the will. But my own home had just been swarmed by the police.
