Chapter 2 - The Logic of the Convoy
The drive from the loop to the northern shore of Lake Geneva took exactly two hours and fourteen minutes if you used the old state highway instead of the interstate. I didn't want the interstate. I wanted the boys to see the land change from the industrial grey of the refineries to the deep, heavy green of the old-money estates that bordered the water.
We didn't travel in a single vehicle. A woman who controls three times the liquid capital of her ex-husband’s remaining estate does not arrive in a town car.
The convoy consisted of three identical, black armored Cadillac Escalades, their glass tinted to a deep, obsidian sheen that completely blocked the midday sun. In the lead vehicle sat my security detail—four men who had spent their twenties in the tier-one logistics units of the naval service, men who didn't look at a crowd to see the dresses, but to count the exit points.
I sat in the middle vehicle, Liam’s small, warm hand tucked inside mine. He was wearing his tuxedo, the dark velvet absorbing the light from the side window like moss. Noah and Caleb were behind us in their car seats, their legs kicking rhythmically against the leather backing, their small fingers tracing the silver buttons on their waistcoats.
"Mama," Noah asked, his voice muffled by a mouthful of organic apple slice. "Are we going to the big house with the boats?"
"We’re going to a house, Noah," I said, my eyes fixed on the navigation screen between the front seats. The small blue arrow was three miles from the red pin labeled The Montgomery Manor. "But we aren't staying for the boats. We’re just dropping off some mail."
The Montgomery estate was a thirty-acre tongue of land that projected out into the deepest part of the lake, protected from the public access roads by a six-foot wall of split limestone and an iron gate that had been forged in Alsace during the late nineteenth century. The driveway was half a mile of crushed white river stone, bordered on either side by ancient white oaks that had been trimmed until their lower branches formed a perfect, horizontal canopy above the asphalt.
As the lead Escalade cleared the stone pillars of the gatehouse, the private security guard—a local sheriff's deputy working details for the weekend—stepped out with his clipboard held high. His face had that smug, small-town certainty that usually came with working for the wealthiest family in the county. He looked at the lead vehicle, his eyes narrowing as he tried to find a registration sticker or a corporate logo on the black bumper.
The lead Escalade didn't slow to a halt. It paused for exactly three seconds—long enough for the security chief, a six-foot-four marine named Briggs, to drop a single, laminated corporate access card through the window gap. It was an executive clearing pass issued by the State Department for high-security transport, a card that my firm had secured during the federal logistics contract restructuring the previous winter.
The deputy looked at the gold seal on the card, his jaw dropping two inches before he could find his whistle. He didn't blow it. He stepped back into the gravel, his hand coming up to his temple in an involuntary salute as the three six-ton vehicles moved past him without a sound, their heavy tires crushing the white river stone into fine, grey powder.
Through the tinted glass, I could see the main lawn. It was a sea of white linen, silk dresses, and grey morning coats. Eleanor had spared nothing for Ethan’s second entry. There were two thousand white roses imported from Colombia arranged along the stone balustrades, their scent fighting the damp, cold wind coming off the open water. A string quartet from the Chicago Symphony was situated on a raised wooden platform near the main terrace, their cellos throwing a low, melancholic hum over the chatter of four hundred guests.
These were the people who had watched me leave five years ago. I recognized Senator Hastings standing near the champagne fountain, his large, red face split into a politician's grin as he accepted a glass from a passing tray. His daughter, Caroline, was the bride—a twenty-four-year-old girl who had been featured in the autumn issue of Town & Country under the headline The New Guard of the North Shore. She was perfect for Ethan; her family controlled the regional shipping permits, and her grandfather had left her an entire block of real estate in the gold coast.
She was a "proper" woman. She didn't have grease under her fingernails from fixing an old layout printer at three in the morning.
"Briggs," I said into the small microphone pinned to my collar.
"Go ahead, Boss," the chief’s voice crackled through my earpiece.
"Don't use the secondary parking lane by the stables. Pull straight to the head of the aisle. Right where the caterer’s trucks drop the ice."
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"That’s a restricted zone, Chloe," Briggs said, his tone entirely flat, entirely devoid of worry. "The coordinator is already waving his little red flag."
"Let him wave it, Briggs," I said, looking down at my own dress—an emerald-green silk couture piece by an Italian house that had taken four women three weeks to sew by hand. It was the color of deep water before a storm, dark, heavy, and completely distinct from the pale pastel chiffons that Eleanor had prescribed for the guests. "We’re here to see the arrangement."
