Chapter 4 - The Traitor's Table
Friday morning arrived under a pale, crisp blue sky.
The closing was set for 9:00 AM at the prestigious law offices of Sterling, Ross & Associates on the top floor of the tallest glass tower in downtown Rockford.
By 8:45 AM, Gloria and Darren arrived in a brand-new, white Lincoln Navigator—purchased three days ago using my father's credit line. Gloria wore a red designer dress with heavy gold jewelry, while Darren sat beside her in a tailored Italian suit, looking like he had already won the lottery.
Beside them sat Raymond Miller, the disbarred notary, holding a leather folder containing the forged deed transfers.
"Is the buyer's wire verified?" Gloria asked nervously as they took the elevator up to the 14th floor.
"Yes, Mom," Darren smirked, checking his phone. "The escrow agent confirmed the three point five million is sitting in the holding account. The second we sign the final deed release, the funds transfer directly to our account in Saint Kitts. By noon, we’re on a private flight to Florida."
"And Arthur?" Raymond Miller asked quietly, looking around nervously. "Are we sure the old man won't show up?"
"The old man is probably freezing in some homeless shelter with his broke daughter," Gloria laughed, applying fresh red lipstick in the elevator mirror. "He can't even remember his own name."
The elevator doors chimed and opened to a opulent reception hall with marble floors and floor-to-ceiling city views.
A young associate guided them into Executive Conference Room A.
A long mahogany table sat in the center of the room. At the far end of the table sat the buyer's corporate attorney, two bank representatives, and a court stenographer.
"Good morning, everyone!" Gloria announced grandly, sitting down in the high-backed leather chair like a queen taking her throne. "Let's get these papers signed. We have a flight to catch."
"Of course, Mrs. Vance," the corporate attorney said politely. "Before we execute the final wire release, the buyer requested one final verification of the original trustee signatures."
"We have all the original signatures right here!" Darren boasted, slamming Raymond Miller’s leather folder onto the table. "Signed by Arthur Vance himself, witnessed and notarized."
At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors at the back of the conference room swung open.
"Actually, Darren," a clear, strong voice echoed across the room, "my father never signed those documents."
Gloria froze. Darren snapped his head around.
I walked into the conference room wearing a dark navy blazer. Behind me walked Detective Sarah Jenkins and three uniformed Illinois State Police officers.
And walking right beside me—wearing a sharp gray suit, holding his cane firmly, his eyes bright, clear, and completely lucid—was my father, Arthur Vance.
Gloria’s face turned the color of chalk. "Arthur...?"
"Hello, Gloria," my father said, his voice deep, resonant, and steady. "You told me I was a burden. You told me I was nothing. But it seems you forgot whose name is on the wall of this city."
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Darren jumped out of his chair, his chair skidding violently across the carpet. "What the hell is this? This is a private commercial closing! Get them out of here!"
"Sit down, Mr. Miller!" Detective Jenkins commanded, stepping between Darren and the door. "Nobody leaves this room."
