Chapter 6 - Richard’s Desperation
The following morning at 8:15 AM, I parked my car in the reserved underground garage beneath my architectural firm in downtown Seattle. As I stepped out of the vehicle with my drafting portfolio under my arm, the heavy metallic sound of a door slamming echoed through the concrete space.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out from behind a concrete pillar. It was Richard Whitmore, Daniel’s older brother. Unlike Daniel, Richard had never bothered with charm. He was a rough, aggressive contractor with grease under his fingernails and a temper that had already earned him two previous misdemeanor assault charges.
"Lauren," he barked, striding toward me with heavy work boots. "We need to talk. Right now."
I didn't run, nor did I reach for mace. Instead, I stood calmly by my driver-side door and quietly pressed the small emergency beacon attached to my car keys—a direct alert linked to the building’s private security station thirty feet away.
"You have no business being on private property, Richard," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "And whatever you have to say can be directed to Arthur Finch."
"Listen to me, you spoiled little princess," Richard snarled, closing the distance until he was towering over me, smelling strongly of stale tobacco and cheap coffee. "Danny messed up, alright? He tried to play high finance and he choked. But my business has thirty guys who depend on me for a paycheck. You’re sitting on forty million dollars that you didn't even earn! You inherited it from an old man who got lucky in real estate!"
"My father built his company over forty-five years with honesty and sweat," I replied coldly. "He never forged signatures, and he never stole from the women he claimed to love."
"You’re going to call Apex Capital and tell them you’re backing the loan," Richard demanded, stepping closer, his face turning an ugly shade of crimson. He raised a thick finger, poking the air inches from my nose. "You’re going to sign the release, or I swear to God, your pretty little face won't look so good on those architecture brochures anymore."
"Is that a threat, Mr. Whitmore?"
The voice came from behind him. Two armed security guards from the building concourse appeared from the stairwell, tasers already drawn and pointed at Richard’s torso.
Simultaneously, I held up my iPhone, which had been recording from the breast pocket of my trench coat the entire time, transmitting the video feed directly to Finch’s office cloud.
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"Thank you, Richard," I said smoothly. "That was felony extortion and witness intimidation on high-definition video. The district attorney is going to love it."
Richard turned white, glancing frantically between the armed guards and the glowing red light on my phone.
