Chapter 3 - The Collect Call from Cell 4B
“Evelyn? Evie, thank God,” Blake’s voice erupted through the conference room speakers, tinny, distorted, and frantic, carrying the unmistakable background echo of a concrete holding facility. “Evie, you have to listen to me. You have to call Arthur Vance off. They’re treating me like a common criminal here. They put me in a block with—with men who aren't... Evie, please!”
I didn't move. I kept my hands folded neatly on top of the financial ledger.
“I’m listening, Blake,” I said, my voice entirely flat.
“It was a mistake! All of it!” he babbled, his words tumbling over each other in a desperate panic. “Mom... Mom pushed me into the Sloane situation. She said we needed an heir, she said you were too focused on your career, she told me—she told me you wouldn't mind if I had a discreet arrangement on the side! And the house... the quitclaim deed was just a leverage play! We never would have thrown you out, Evie. You know I love Red Mesa!”
“You tied me to the back of your car, Blake,” I reminded him, my tone so calm it seemed to freeze the air in the conference room.
“I was angry!” he shouted, the thin veneer of his desperate pleading cracking for a fraction of a second to reveal the vicious temper underneath. “You backed me into a corner! You had the financial audits, you had the bank records, you were destroying everything I built! If you had just signed the deed like a reasonable wife, none of this would have happened!”
Beside me, Marcus Vance slowly shook his head in absolute disgust, while Arthur stared at the phone as if listening to a particularly pathetic insect.
“You built nothing, Blake,” I said quietly. “You rented an illusion with Whitaker money, and when the bill came due, you tried to sell my mother’s home to pay for your mistakes.”
“Evie... please,” he sobbed, the sound pathetic and hollow against the concrete walls of the jail. “What about our marriage? Eleven years! Do eleven years mean nothing to you?”
“Eleven years taught me exactly who you are,” I answered. “Every anniversary dinner where you patronized my work, every holiday where your mother insulted my family, every forged document, every lie... I remember all of it, Blake.”
“You can’t do this to me,” he whispered, the panic returning full force. “The prosecutors are talking about fifteen years. Fifteen years, Evie! I’ll lose everything! My license, my company, my reputation—'
“Your company is gone,” I interrupted. “Your license is being revoked by the state licensing board as we speak. And as for your reputation... well, Judith’s livestream is still circulating on social media. People in Phoenix are very familiar with your work now.”
There was a long, shuddering gasp on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of heavy sobbing.
“What do you want, Evie?” he whispered, broken down into a hollow shell of the man who had stood on my patio with a length of yellow rope. “Just tell me what it takes to make this stop.”
“There is nothing you can offer me, Blake, because you no longer own anything to trade,” I said steadily. “Sign the uncontested divorce papers my attorneys are sending to your cell this afternoon. Surrender all claims to my separate property, my corporate shares, and any association with the Whitaker name.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then Arthur and Marcus will ensure that every single fraudulent loan, every shell company, and every illegal bribe you ever touched is prosecuted to the absolute maximum extent of federal law. You won't just do fifteen years, Blake. You’ll spend the rest of your productive life paying restitution from a federal penitentiary.”
Silence stretched across the line. The heavy, ragged breathing of a man realizing he had reached the absolute bottom of the cliff.
“...Send the papers,” he whispered.
The line went dead with a sharp, automated click.
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I reached out, pressed the disconnect button, and looked up at Arthur and Marcus.
“Get the paperwork to the county jail within the hour,” I instructed. “Let’s close this chapter before lunch.”
