Chapter 6 - The Man Hunt
The glass conference room on the forty-fifth floor of the Harrison Freight Tower in Midtown Manhattan felt like a war room.
It was 3:00 p.m. on Friday—sixty-four hours after the gala.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow was falling heavily over the city, blurring the shapes of the skyscrapers into ghostly white pillars. Inside, Daniel Harrison stood at the head of a twenty-foot mahogany table. He had not slept in two days. His tuxedo had been replaced by an unbuttoned white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red.
Sitting around the table were four people:
Frank Lawson—a former NYPD detective lieutenant who now ran Harrison Freight’s private corporate security apparatus.
Arthur Sterling—the senior partner from Vance, Sterling & Croft, whom Daniel had summoned under threat of legal action.
Margaret Harrison—sitting silent near the window, her hands folded tightly over her lap.
Vanessa Cole—standing near the doorway, holding a laptop, looking nervous and deeply uncomfortable.
"What do you mean, you can't trace the car?!" Daniel’s voice boomed across the glass walls, striking the table with his palm. "Morris dropped her at JFK at 11:15 p.m.! Every terminal has two hundred surveillance cameras!"
Frank Lawson rubbed his weathered chin, sliding a blue folder across the wood. "Daniel, hear me out. Morris says he loaded one green suitcase at the apartment. We pulled the TSA security footage from Terminal Four between 11:10 and midnight. We saw her enter."
"And?!" Daniel demanded, leaning over the table. "Which gate did she go to?!"
"She didn't go to a gate," Lawson said flatly. "She walked straight through the departure hall, out the lower exit to the ground transportation center, and took a private yellow cab."
Daniel blinked, his brow knitting together. "A yellow cab? Where did it take her?"
"Cash transaction, no app booking," Lawson said. "We traced the cab’s medallion number through city transit records. It dropped her at the Port Authority Bus Terminal on 42nd Street at 12:05 a.m."
"A bus terminal?" Daniel stared at Lawson as if he were speaking an unknown language. "Amy doesn't take buses! She hasn't taken a bus in ten years!"
"She did on Tuesday morning," Lawson replied calmly. "And from Port Authority, there are seventy-five outgoing long-distance routes leaving every hour to every state on the East Coast. She left her personal phone in Morris's car after clearing it. She hasn't used her credit cards, her debit cards, or her primary bank accounts since Monday."
Daniel turned like a cornered animal toward Arthur Sterling, the family lawyer.
"Arthur," Daniel growled, pointing a finger at the older man. "You know where she is. She left your business card in her drawer with a handwritten note. Tell me where she filed those papers."
Arthur Sterling adjusted his glasses, his expression calm, professional, and entirely unbothered by Daniel’s rage.
"Mr. Harrison," Sterling said in a measured tone, "Mrs. Harrison retained our firm three weeks ago. She executed a formal representation agreement that places all communications under strict attorney-client privilege. Even if I knew her current physical location—which I assure you, I do not—I could not disclose it to you without violating state bar regulations."
"She’s my wife!" Daniel yelled, stepping toward Sterling. "She’s eighteen weeks pregnant with my child!"
The room went dead silent.
Vanessa Cole’s mouth dropped open slightly. She looked from Daniel to Margaret, a sudden flash of panic crossing her features as she realized the true depth of the disaster unfolding around her.
Sterling did not flinch. "I am aware of Mrs. Harrison’s condition, Mr. Harrison. She informed me during our initial consultation. She also instructed us to file formal legal separation papers in New York Supreme Court on Monday morning. You will receive service through our offices."
"I won't accept service," Daniel whispered, his voice cracking with pure, raw desperation. "I’ll fight it. I’ll hire every firm in the state. I’ll freeze every account until she comes back to talk to me."
"You can try," Sterling said, closing his leather briefcase with two quiet clicks. "But I advise you to read the property waiver she signed. She is asking for no spousal support. She is asking for no share of Harrison Freight Systems. She is asking for nothing from the family trust. In forty years of family law, Mr. Harrison, I have learned one absolute truth: a spouse who asks for half your money wants a negotiation. A spouse who asks for nothing wants to be free."
Sterling stood up, bowed his head slightly toward Margaret, and walked out of the glass conference room.
Daniel stood frozen at the head of the table.
"Frank," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the door. "Hire private investigators. Put ten men on it. Fifty men. Search every hotel, every rental agency, every small town in New York, Connecticut, Vermont, Maine. I want her found."
"Daniel," Margaret’s voice broke through the silence from the window.
Daniel didn't look at her. "Not now, Mother."
"Look at me, Daniel!" Margaret’s voice rose with an authority that stopped him in his tracks.
He turned slowly.
Margaret stood up, her face filled with a profound, bitter sorrow. "She isn't coming back because you found her. Even if Frank finds her sitting in a hotel room somewhere, what are you going to do? Bring two bodyguards and drag your pregnant wife back to 74th Street?"
"I need to talk to her!" Daniel roared. "I need to explain!"
"Explain what?!" Margaret walked toward him, her finger pointing directly at his chest. "Explain that you didn't notice she was suffering for four months? Explain that you were too busy building a third warehouse terminal to ask why she looked tired? Explain that you danced with your PR director while she held an ultrasound picture in her bag?!"
Vanessa took a quiet step backward toward the exit door, her hand reaching behind her for the handle.
"Get out, Vanessa," Margaret said without even turning her head.
Vanessa didn't argue. She slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.
Daniel slumped into the leather armchair at the head of the table. He pulled his hands over his face, his breathing coming in ragged, broken gasps.
May you like
"She didn't tell me, Mother," he wept softly into his hands. "She didn't tell me about the baby..."
"She tried to tell you for four months, Daniel," Margaret said, her voice softening slightly as she reached down to place her hand on his trembling shoulder. "You were just never home to listen."
