Chapter 2
Chapter 2 - DEAD MEN TELL NO TALESThe storm howling off Lake Michigan was the worst Chicago had seen in a decade. Gale-force winds whipped the rain into horizontal needles, slashing against the glass pane of Iris’s studio. The clock on the wall chimed 11:00 PM. Arthur was downstairs in his private study, likely sipping scotch and finalizing the logistics for the Miller Gala. He believed he had her entirely locked away, both physically and mentally.But Iris had spent the last three hours preparing her stage.
She changed into a pair of durable, dark denim jeans, a thick black wool sweater, and water-resistant hiking boots—practical gear she had secretly ordered online months ago using a prepaid digital card, delivered to a local Amazon locker under a fake name. In her waterproof tactical backpack, she packed her essential documents, her life savings in cash ($8,000 withdrawn meticulously in small amounts over a year), and the three golden shards of the shattered Kintsugi bowl.
Now, she needed the illusion of death.
Iris walked to the edge of the penthouse terrace. The wind almost knocked her off her feet, the freezing rain soaking her hair instantly. She looked down at the churning, black vortex of Lake Michigan forty feet below. A fall into those rocky, freezing waters tonight meant certain death. Arthur’s security cameras covered the main entrance and the elevators, but the private marina dock at the back had a blind spot near the concrete retaining wall—a structural flaw she had noticed during a summer party.
She took off her expensive diamond engagement ring—the glittering shackle Arthur had placed on her finger—and left it resting on the stone railing of the terrace, right next to a single, high-heeled shoe and her silk scarf, which she tied loosely to the metal bar so it would whip violently in the wind. To any investigator, it would look like a desperate, tragic leap into the watery abyss.
She ran down the back utility stairwell, her heart hammering against her ribs. The air was freezing, smelling of dust and concrete. Bypassing the lobby, she slipped through the basement maintenance door that led directly to the private marina.
The cold water of the lake splashed over the concrete pier, soaking her boots. She crawled along the retaining wall, keeping low to avoid the sweep of the security lights. At the edge of the pier, a small, old fiberglass dinghy she had secretly unlocked the day before was bobbing violently on the waves.
She got in, untying the line. The waves grabbed the small boat instantly, dragging it into the darkness of the lake. She didn't use the motor; she let the current drift her half a mile down the shoreline to an abandoned industrial shipyard.
When the dinghy crashed against the rusted metal of the old shipyard dock, Iris scrambled out, her body shivering violently from the cold. She abandoned the boat, knowing the police would find it washed up miles away, empty and battered by the storm.
She walked three miles through the torrential rain to a twenty-four-hour Greyhound bus station on the outskirts of the city. She kept her hood pulled low, her face smeared with dirt to hide her features. She purchased a cash ticket to Missoula, Montana—a place as far away from the concrete, high-society prisons of Chicago as she could possibly imagine.
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As the bus engine roared to life and pulled out of the station into the dark, rainy night, Iris looked at her reflection in the dirty window. Her face was pale, her lips blue from the cold, but her eyes were alive.
Iris Thorne was dead. And the woman who survived was going to find her freedom.
