Chapter 6 - THE FULTON MARKET RAID
By 3:30 p.m., the skies over Chicago had turned the color of bruised slate. A heavy, freezing rain began to pelt the city, blurring the neon lights of Fulton Market into streaks of red and yellow.
Detective Miller stood beside me in the lobby of 840 West Fulton—a luxury, high-security loft building where Ethan maintained his secret studio apartment.
Two uniformed officers stood behind her, holding a freshly signed search warrant.
“Mrs. Ward,” Miller said, eyeing me closely as we rode the private elevator up to the ninth floor. “Are you sure you want to be here for this? You look pale.”
“I’m not leaving until I see what he hid in that room, Detective,” I replied, my voice steady.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open directly into a sleek, industrial-style loft. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, minimalist leather furniture.
It was immaculate. Too immaculate.
“Search everything,” Miller ordered her team. “Laptops, safes, medicine cabinets, trash receptacles.”
The officers moved quickly, pulling on rubber gloves and fanning out across the loft. I stood near the kitchen island, looking around at the life my husband had built away from me.
On the counter sat a high-end granite mortar and pestle.
I walked over to it.
Detective Miller followed my gaze. She leaned down, shining a tactical flashlight into the stone bowl.
A fine, chalky white residue was caked into the rough granite grooves at the bottom.
“Technician!” Miller called out. “Get a field test kit over here now!”
While the forensic technician scraped the white powder into a test tube, an officer in the master bedroom called out.
“Detective! We found a hidden safe behind the wardrobe!”
We walked into the bedroom. The wardrobe had been pulled away from the wall, revealing a heavy digital safe built into the brickwork.
“Can you open it, Mrs. Ward?” Miller asked me.
I looked at the electronic keypad. I thought about Ethan. I thought about his obsession with dates, numbers, patterns.
I tried our wedding anniversary: 10-17. Error.
I tried his birthday: 04-12. Error.
I tried my father’s death date: 08-23.
Click.
The heavy steel door unlocked and swung open.
Inside lay three thick black binder folders, a stack of offshore bank tokens, and four sealed pharmaceutical bottles labeled Misoprostol - 200mcg.
Three of the bottles were completely empty.
Detective Miller leaned in, her face hardening into stone as she read the prescription labels.
“Prescribed by a private clinic in Mexico,” Miller muttered. “Acquired six weeks ago.”
Six weeks ago.
Ethan hadn't just planned this morning’s attack on a whim. He had been sourcing the chemical compound for over a month, waiting for the right moment to force me to consume it.
“Detective!” the forensic technician called out from the kitchen. “The field test on the mortar and pestle just came back positive! High-concentration synthetic prostaglandin—matching misoprostol!”
It was over. The physical evidence was absolute.
The pestle. The chalky residue. The empty pharmaceutical bottles. The offshore bank tokens matching the fourteen-million-dollar embezzlement trail.
Detective Miller pulled out her radio, her voice sharp and commanding.
“All units, this is Detective Miller. Issue an immediate felony warrant for Ethan Ward. Charges: Attempted murder, aggravated poisoning, and high-value corporate fraud. Proceed to Whitman & Reed Capital immediately.”
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the rain pouring over Chicago.
My phone chimed in my pocket.
It was 4:45 p.m.
A text from Ethan.
ETHAN: Fifteen minutes left, Claire. Sign the trust or the SEC files. Don't be stupid.
I tapped out a response with cold, unwavering fingers.
CLAIRE: I’m in Fulton Market, Ethan. The police just opened the safe.
He didn't reply.
May you like
Five seconds later, his location marker on my family sharing app began moving rapidly toward the parking garage.
He was running.
