Chapter 6 - Freeing the Cage
By six o’clock the following morning, the sun rose over a world that felt fundamentally altered.
I stood in the driveway of my home—the Craftsman-style house my father had built with his own two hands thirty years ago. A locksmith’s van was parked by the curb. The high-pitched whine of a drill echoed in the crisp morning air as the technician replaced the deadbolts on the front door, the back patio, and the side garage.
"All done, Ms. Vance," the locksmith said, wiping his brow and handing me a set of heavy brass keys. "High-security cylinders. Nobody gets through these without a battering ram."
"Thank you, Leo," I said, handing him a generous tip.
My phone rang. The screen displayed the name Clara Sterling—my divorce attorney and the sharpest litigator in the tri-state area.
"Tell me you watched the morning news," Clara’s sharp voice came through the speaker.
"I didn't turn the TV on," I admitted, walking inside and locking the heavy door behind me. The house was dead quiet. The scent of Grant's expensive cologne still lingered faintly in the foyer, but it was fading.
"Well, you made the regional business wire," Clara said with a dry chuckle. "Local Wealth Manager Indicted in Multi-Million Dollar Fraud and Interstate Embezzlement. Ethan Cole’s corporate legal team filed a freeze on every single account linked to Grant, Dylan, and Patricia at midnight. The judge signed an emergency injunction."
"What about my father's property?" I asked, my heart clenching.
"Safe," Clara assured me. "Because we filed the fraud affidavit and the criminal report simultaneously, the title company has flagged the second mortgage as fraudulent. The bank cannot touch the house. You own it free and clear, Nora. We won that battle before Grant even made bail."
"Has he made bail?"
"Not a chance. The magistrate set bail at five million dollars for Grant and two million for Dylan due to flight risk. Vanessa Whitmore’s family posted her bail within an hour, but she’s on house arrest with an ankle monitor at her parents’ estate. Ethan already filed for divorce, citing extreme financial fraud and adultery. She won't see a dime."
A sudden, violent pounding rattled the heavy front door.
I froze, lowering the phone. "Clara, hold on."
"Open the damn door, Nora!"
It wasn't Grant. It was Patricia.
May you like
I walked slowly to the foyer, peering through the sidelight window. Patricia Vance stood on my porch, her hair wild, her expensive designer coat unbuttoned, and her face blotchy from crying. Behind her, a battered yellow taxi waited at the curb with its hazard lights blinking.
"Open this door right now!" she screamed, slapping her palms against the wood. "They won't let me see my boys! You have to drop the charges! You have to tell the FBI you lied!"
