Chapter 7 - The Last 24 Hours
The fog had rolled back in, thick and gray, swallowing the city in a cold, quiet shroud.
The diner was closed, but the lights were on. Inside, two state troopers and a representative from the Illinois Attorney General’s financial crimes division were huddled over the kitchen table, their laptops hooked up to our small Wi-Fi router, their faces illuminated by the green and blue screens as they verified the files on Clara’s thumb drive.
"It’s all here, Ms. Carter," the investigator, a sharp-faced woman named Agent Miller, said. "The offshore wire transfers, the tax filings, the payroll records for the clinic doctor in Lake Forest. It’s a clean sweep. We’ve already secured the federal warrants for the arrest of Margaret and Grant Holloway."
"What about the flight to Montreal?" I asked, leaning against the prep table.
"Customs has already flagged his passport," Miller said, closing her laptop with a firm, satisfying click. "If he tries to board that plane, he’ll be in handcuffs before he even reaches the security gate. But we’ve got a team heading to the Lake Forest estate right now to secure the physical servers."
"I want to go," Hannah said, stepping out from the office. Her face was still bruised, but her posture had changed. She no longer looked like the girl who had been kneeling on the white Persian rug. She looked like her father—tall, steady, and unbreakable.
"Hannah, no," I said, reaching for her arm. "It’s going to be a circus up there. Let the police handle it."
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"No, Mom," Hannah said, her voice quiet but carrying a force that stopped me instantly. "I lived in that house for four years. I cleaned their floors. I took their slaps. I want to see them when they realize they don't own the world anymore."
Artie Pendelton stood up from the corner booth, his heavy wooden cane clicking against the floor. "The girl’s right, Evelyn. A woman’s got a right to see her own rescue. I’ll drive the truck."
