Chapter 26 - The Golden Child Breaks
Eleanor Vance’s three-million-dollar penthouse in Tribeca smelled of expensive tuberose candles and sheer panic.
She hadn't been to sleep. The stock ticker on her sixty-five-inch television was flashing bright red: *VANCE HOLDINGS PLUMMETS 78% AMID FEDERAL EMBEZZLEMENT RAIDS.* Every bank account tied to her name had been frozen by emergency court injunctions I had filed at midnight through the Manhattan District Attorney's financial crimes unit.
When the front door of her penthouse clicked open, Eleanor jumped off her white velvet couch, clutching a glass of gin. "Arthur? Did you fix it? The wire transfers aren't going through, and my card got declined at—"
She froze.
I walked into the foyer, wearing black cargo pants, combat boots, and an unzipped leather jacket. My hands were clean, but my eyes were dead. Behind me, Marcus stepped inside, locking the deadbolt and drawing the sheer silk blinds shut.
"Claire..." Eleanor turned as white as her marble floors, dropping her glass. It shattered into a puddle of alcohol. "How... how did you get in here?"
"You left a key under the decorative planter. The same hiding spot you used when you were sixteen and sneaking out to buy pills," I said, walking slowly toward her.
"Claire, listen to me," Eleanor stammered, backing away until the back of her knees hit the couch. "Whatever Dad did, I had nothing to do with it! I didn't know about Ethan! I swear to God, I thought it was an accident!"
I didn't stop until I was standing inches from her. I raised my hand. Eleanor cinched her eyes shut, whimpering, expecting a blow.
Instead, I reached into my coat, pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph, and held it before her eyes.
It was a picture taken three days ago by a surveillance team at Heron Island. It showed my seven-year-old son, Leo, and five-year-old daughter, Maya, sitting behind the barred windows of a converted boathouse, looking out at the gray, freezing Atlantic waves.
"Look at them, Eleanor," I commanded.
Eleanor choked back a sob, looking down.
"You were at Heron Island last weekend," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Your credit card records show a chartered helicopter flight to the island on Saturday. You brought them cupcakes. You patted my son on the head, told him his mommy was dead, and then flew back here to get a manicure."
"He made me!" Eleanor shrieked, falling to her knees, clutching the hem of my pants with manic desperation. "Dad said if I told you, he would disown me! He said he would leave me with nothing! He said Ethan was already a vegetable and the kids were happier thinking you died peacefully in your sleep! Claire, please, he controls everything! He owns the judges, he owns the state police!"
I looked down at the sister I had spent my entire life protecting, excusing, and accommodating.
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"Where is the master key to the island boathouse, Eleanor?"
"In... in his desk at the compound," she wept, shuddering violently. "He’s there right now. He chartered a yacht to take him to international waters at dawn. He’s taking the kids with him as a human shield!"
