Chapter 6 - Face to Face with the Poison
Claire Miller lived in a secure, high-rise glass condominium in the heart of downtown, twenty miles east of our ruined home.
Getting there took four hours. We traveled by commuter rail, sitting in the rear of the last train car, hiding beneath hoods pulled low, using cash to buy one-way tickets from an automated machine.
When the penthouse elevator pinged on the thirty-second floor, Claire’s private corridor smelled of expensive bergamot and polished stone.
I didn't ring the bell. I stood in front of the door, wet, muddy, smelling of ditch water and smoke, holding my exhausted child by the hand, and banged on the solid mahogany wood with the flat of my fist.
The peep-hole darkened.
Then came the rattle of three separate electronic security deadbolts.
The door swung open. Claire Miller stood in the foyer, wearing a silk robe, holding a glass of white wine. Her polished, manicured face was framed by sleek blonde hair.
She took one look at me—at our soaked clothes, my bleeding feet, the soot smeared across Lily’s forehead—and dropped her wine glass.
The crystal shattered across the white Italian marble floor.
“Elena?” Claire choked, her face draining of color until she looked like a ghost. “You’re... you were in the house. Derek said you were trapped on the second floor.”
“He lied,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “Just like he lied when he told you that you were going to Zurich with him next Friday.”
Claire backed away, her hands trembling. “What are you talking about? He’s at the county morgue right now... he’s identifying personal effects...”
I stepped forward into her immaculate penthouse, leaving muddy footprints on her pristine floors. Lily walked beside me, her small hand warm inside mine.
“He’s identifying empty ash, Claire. Because he paid Marcus Vance twenty thousand dollars to cut the furnace line and ignite the house.”
“No,” Claire stammered, shaking her head in denial. “No, Derek wouldn't... he’s reckless with money, but he’s not a murderer! He told me the escrow shortage was a clerical error! He said he was settling the account this week!”
I reached into my bag and pulled out the old iPhone 8. I opened the *PROJECT VANGUARD* folder and tapped the file labeled *LIQUIDATION_SCHEDULE_FINAL.pdf*.
I shoved the glowing screen into her face.
Claire’s eyes scanned the document.
Her breath turned into a frantic, wheezing gasp.
There were three payout columns listed beneath the $10,000,000 insurance line.
*Column 1: Marcus Vance - $100,000 (Settlement of domestic remediation).*
*Column 2: Offshore Trust - Cayman Account #419 - $9,900,000.*
Claire’s name was not on the ledger.
Instead, at the bottom of the page, beneath the transfer approvals, was an attached PDF of a criminal affidavit drafted by an anonymous whistleblower.
It accused Claire Miller of single-handedly embezzling four million dollars from the Chicago investment group, complete with forged electronic signatures bearing her private corporate seal.
Derek had built a paper trail that painted Claire as the mastermind behind the missing millions.
If the police looked into Derek after our deaths, they would find an innocent, grieving widower whose rogue CFO had ruined his company, burned down his house to destroy the financial records, and murdered his family out of spite.
Claire collapsed against the marble kitchen island, her knees giving out just as mine had hours ago.
“He’s going to frame me,” she whispered, tears cutting tracks through her makeup. “The FBI was in my office yesterday morning asking for balance sheets. He told me not to worry... he said he had it handled.”
“He did have it handled,” I said, leaning down so my face was inches from hers. “He handled it by setting fire to my child’s bedroom. And the moment the police realize Lily and I aren't in that ash heap, he will point them straight at you.”
Claire looked up, her blue eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror.
The cold, arrogant executive had vanished. In her place was another woman who had been used, lied to, and lined up for slaughter.
“What do you want?” Claire whispered.
May you like
“I want everything,” I replied. “Every password. Every offshore routing number. Every encrypted audio file he stored on your private server. I’m going to tear his life into pieces on live television. And you are going to help me.”
***
