Chapter 6 - The Closing of the Account
The county jail booking room smelled of bleach, wet concrete, and institutional despair.
Through the thick, reinforced glass of the holding partition, I watched Marcus and Rachel sitting on opposite ends of a bolted-down aluminum bench. Marcus had his head in his hands, his expensive charcoal blazer ruined, his hair disheveled. Rachel was crying hysterically into a small, crumpled tissue, glaring at the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling as if she could intimidate the lens into turning off.
They weren't looking at me.
They didn't dare.
Arthur stood beside me, holding a black leather folder containing the final financial settlement papers from the Red Acre farm sale.
"The district attorney’s office has already accepted the grand jury indictments," Arthur said quietly, adjusting his glasses. "Given the severity of the physical assault charges, combined with documented financial coercion and forgery, bail has been set at five hundred thousand dollars each. Neither of them has liquid assets to cover that kind of bond without liquidating their properties—properties, I might add, that are currently subject to immediate civil asset forfeiture liens stemming from your civil suit for damages."
"Will they serve time?" I asked, watching Marcus nervously twitch his foot against the concrete floor.
Arthur looked at me, his expression softening just a fraction. "Class B felony elder abuse resulting in grievous bodily harm, combined with interstate extortion involving multi-million-dollar wire fraud. If the judge throws the book at them—and given that the presiding judge is an old friend of your late father’s who hates white-collar thugs—they’re looking at ten to fifteen years minimum, with no parole eligibility for at least eight."
Ten to fifteen years.
By the time Marcus and Rachel walked out of a federal penitentiary, they would be middle-aged, their reputations obliterated, their social circles evaporated, and every cent they had ever tried to steal from me locked safely away in an untouchable charitable trust.
"Good," I said softly.
We turned away from the glass partition and walked down the long, fluorescent-lit corridor toward the main exit of the sheriff’s precinct.
As the heavy glass doors pushed open, the afternoon sunlight hit my face for the first time in six hours. It was warm, golden, and smelled of autumn leaves and open air.
Waiting at the curb was a sleek, dark-blue Lincoln town car with a private driver holding the rear door open. Standing beside the vehicle was Leo, the young security contractor who had installed the pantry camera three months ago. He tipped his cap to me with a respectful smile.
"Everything secure, Mrs. Vance?" Leo asked.
"More secure than it’s ever been, Leo," I replied, pulling my woolen cardigan tight across my ribs, wincing only slightly as the bruised bone protested the movement.
I stepped into the back of the town car, the leather seats soft and cool against my back. Arthur slid in beside me, closing the door with a satisfying, muffled thud that shut out the noise of the street, the sirens, and the past seventy-one years of debt, dirt, and sacrifice.
"Where to, Martha?" Arthur asked, pulling a leather-bound notebook from his briefcase. "The city hotel suite? Or are we heading north?"
May you like
I looked out the window as the car pulled away from the curb, accelerating smoothly down the boulevard toward the interstate highway system that led north—toward the coast, toward the salt air, toward the gray Atlantic crashing against the jagged granite cliffs of Maine.
"North, Arthur," I said, leaning my head back against the plush headrest and closing my eyes. "All the way north."
