Chapter 6 - Freezing the Bloodline
Within forty minutes, the courtyard outside the Fairchild estate was lit by the sweeping headlights of black SUVs.
Private forensic accountants, hired by Raymond through the Harrison Vanguard Trust, moved through the house with clinical efficiency. They seized hard drives, personal laptops, filing cabinets, and the master safe inside Brendan's private study.
Ximena was sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, wrapped in a blanket, weeping hysterically into her hands as two female security officers stood guard over her. Every single piece of jewelry she wore—the diamond tennis bracelets, the Cartier rings, the pearl earrings given to her from the family vault—had been confiscated and logged as stolen trust collateral.
Suddenly, Brendan’s phone, which sat on the marble foyer table, began to buzz violently.
The screen illuminated with an incoming call: *Samantha.*
Raymond looked at me. "Do you want to answer it, Mrs. Harrison?"
It was the first time in five years someone had called me by my real name. It felt like shedding a skin of lead.
"Put it on speaker," I instructed.
Raymond tapped the screen and pressed the speaker icon.
Immediately, Samantha’s frantic, high-pitched voice echoed through the vast foyer. "Brendan! What the hell is going on?! The concierge at the high-rise just locked me out of the penthouse! They’re telling me the lease was terminated by an institutional owner! And my black card was declined at the jeweler’s an hour ago! Call your banker right now and fix this!"
Brendan, who was sitting on the floor under the watchful eye of a security detail, looked up with hollow, dead eyes. He didn't say a word.
"Brendan?!" Samantha yelled, panic creeping into her voice. "Are you there?! Why isn't your private line working?! Some men in suits just showed up at my boutique with a seizure warrant for all inventory bought through the logistics consulting account! Tell them who you are!"
I stepped toward the phone.
"He can't tell them who he is, Samantha," I said, my voice cutting through her frantic tirade like ice. "Because he is nobody."
The line went dead silent for three whole seconds.
"Nora?" Samantha’s voice dropped, turning sharp and defensive. "What are you doing with Brendan's phone? Put him on. This is business between the executive board and my firm."
"Your firm was incorporated using funds stolen from my daughter’s healthcare allocation trust," I said. "The penthouse you are standing outside of was leased under an auxiliary account belonging to the Harrison Vanguard Trust. As of midnight, the lease has been revoked, the assets frozen, and your name has been submitted to the Department of Justice as a co-conspirator in an ongoing federal grand jury investigation for grand larceny."
"You... you can't do that!" Samantha stammered, her voice cracking in pure terror. "Brendan gave me those accounts! He authorized every single wire transfer!"
"Brendan didn't own the money," I whispered. "He was just a signatory on an account that belonged to Chloe. And Chloe is dead."
A sharp gasp escaped Samantha’s throat. "What?"
"You spent my daughter's life on champagne and penthouses," I said. "Enjoy the street tonight, Samantha. Because tomorrow, you won't even have that."
I tapped the red button, cutting the call off mid-sentence.
Brendan buried his face in his bloody hands, his body shaking with violent, dry sobs. "Nora... please. What do you want from me? What is left to take?"
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I looked down at him, my heart devoid of pity, devoid of hatred, devoid of anything except the single-minded pursuit of justice for the child who had slipped away in my arms while he laughed on a yacht.
"Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock," I said, "the board of Fairchild Industries convenes for an emergency shareholder meeting. You will attend. You will wear your best suit. And you will tell every investor in that room exactly what you did."
