Chapter 3 - Documenting the Crime
The drive to Zoe and Marcus’s penthouse in Gold Coast took twenty minutes. Lily fell asleep against my chest, exhausted from the crying and the emotional shock, her tiny hand gripping my thumb with a white-knuckled hold.
The moment we arrived, Zoe had a pediatric nurse—a trusted family friend—waiting in the guest suite.
"We need everything documented," Zoe said quietly as the nurse, Sarah, gently examined Lily on the king-sized bed. "Medical records, high-resolution photographs with metric rulers, timestamps, and an official assessment of soft tissue trauma."
I watched as Sarah carefully snapped high-flash photographs of Lily’s cheek. The swelling had begun to rise, a sickening purplish-red welt where Megan’s diamond-encrusted rings had grazed the delicate skin just below Lily's left eye.
"If that slap had landed two inches higher," Sarah remarked grimly, jotting down notes on her tablet, "she could have suffered a corneal abrasion. For an adult woman to hit a five-year-old child with that level of force... it's sickening. I'm filing a mandatory report with the Department of Children and Family Services tonight, Chloe."
"File it," I said without hesitation.
"Chloe," Zoe said, pulling me toward the adjoining library once Lily was tucked into bed with Sarah keeping watch. She handed me a mug of hot tea laced with honey. "You know what we have to do now."
I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark expanse of Lake Michigan.
The Peterson family thought I was just Mark’s quiet, agreeable wife—the woman who left a lucrative corporate consulting career to manage a boutique private equity fund from home while raising our daughter. They assumed my wealth belonged to Mark. They believed the multi-million-dollar brownstone they lived in, the luxury European vacations, and the capital keeping their various pet projects afloat were all fruits of Mark’s brilliance as a mid-level director at an architectural firm.
They were idiots.
Every dime Mark managed came from my trust. The brownstone his parents occupied? Owned entirely by a shell company under my family’s portfolio, leased to Frank and Eleanor Peterson for a token dollar a month.
And Megan’s pride and joy—"Maison Megan," the high-end apparel boutique in the heart of the Magnificent Mile that she bragged about constantly on Instagram?
I funded it.
I held the master commercial lease. I personally guaranteed her four-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit at Chase. My private investment vehicle, Horizon Crest, owned seventy percent of the operating equity because Megan didn't have the credit score or business acumen to secure a loan on a used Honda, let alone a flagship retail space.
"Call the property management group, Zoe," I said, setting the untouched mug down on the mahogany desk. "And get our forensic auditor, David, on the phone."
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"Already texted him," Zoe replied, a predator’s smile touching her lips. "He’s canceling his Black Friday plans. Chloe, Megan’s flagship store is supposed to open at 6:00 AM tomorrow for the biggest sales day of her entire year. She claims she has over half a million dollars in inventory riding on Black Friday."
"Not anymore," I said. "Tonight, the Petersons locked me and my daughter out in the freezing cold. Tomorrow, we lock Megan out of her life."
