Chapter 8 - The Velvet Prison Breaks
By midnight, the chaos of the suburban mansion was thirty miles behind us.
The Presidential Suite at the historic Brown Palace Hotel in downtown Denver was warm, silent, and illuminated by the soft amber glow of crystal sconces. High above the snow-swept streets, the suite featured high ceilings, plush velvet drapes, and an enormous stone fireplace that crackled with dry birch logs.
Room service had delivered silver platters of roasted tenderloin, garlic potato puree, fresh fruit, and warm rolls. A pristine white wooden crib, arranged through the hotel’s luxury concierge, stood near the foot of the king-sized four-poster bed, fitted with organic cotton sheets and plush blankets.
Lily was asleep inside the crib, her stomach full of warm milk, her little breathing slow and deep. For the first time in her nine months of life, she wasn't sleeping in a drafty room where the walls shook every time the furnace kicked on.
I stood by the tall arched window, looking out over the illuminated Denver skyline, holding a porcelain mug of chamomile tea. I was wearing a soft, oversized cashmere sweater that Grandma had purchased from the hotel’s boutique downstairs.
The door to the adjoining salon opened softly, and Grandma Margaret stepped into the bedroom, wearing a simple silk robe. She looked smaller without her tailored blazer, but the sharpness in her gaze remained entirely intact.
“She’s sleeping well,” Grandma murmured, walking over to the crib and looking down at Lily.
“She hasn't slept this soundly since she was born,” I whispered. “In that apartment, the pipes banged constantly. She woke up every two hours.”
Grandma rested her hand on the crib railing. Her knuckles were pale, her wedding band catching the firelight. “Denise is downstairs in the lobby.”
I stiffened. “I don't want to see her.”
“I didn't let her up,” Grandma said simply. “I told her that being foolish is not a crime, but being a coward is. She allowed Patricia to poison her mind because it was easier than looking at the reality of your suffering. She will have to earn her way back to this family on her knees, and that journey does not begin tonight.”
Grandma walked over to the sofa by the fireplace and sat down, gesturing for me to sit beside her. I crossed the room and sat, the soft wool of the cushions sinking luxuriously beneath me.
“Richard spent the last two hours on the phone with the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s field office in Denver,” Grandma said, her voice dropping into a quiet, measured cadence. “This is much bigger than Patricia simply being a greedy thief.”
I set my tea down on the marble coffee table. “What do you mean?”
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“The trucking company that killed Evan,” Grandma said, her eyes darkening. “Apex Freightlines was not an independent outfit. It was an affiliate transport firm owned by a regional logistics consortium out of Salt Lake City. And one of the minority board members of that consortium was a man named Arthur Vance—Richard’s estranged brother, who Patricia has been having an affair with for the last five years.”
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