Chapter 8 - Ghosts in the Glass
Z
The sunrise over Lake Michigan had offered a false promise. By three o’clock that afternoon, the sky above Lincoln Park had bruised into a heavy, violet twilight, choked with low-hanging smog and cold moisture.
I sat on the polished granite counter of the estate’s kitchen, watching Leo draw with blue crayons on a pad of heavy paper. He hadn't drawn monsters or rain. He was drawing two women standing side by side in front of a giant blue door. One had red shoes; the other had no feet at all.
“Willa?” Leo whispered, his little voice barely cutting through the hum of the refrigerator.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Is Daddy going to jail too?”
My heart squeezed tight. “No, Leo. Absolutely not. Why would you think that?”
“Because Uncle Julian said everyone who touches the money goes away.” He pressed down so hard on the crayon that the wax tip snapped off with a sharp pop. “He said Daddy was going to go away just like Mommy.”
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the kitchen swung open. Adrian stepped inside, pulling off his damp suit jacket. He looked ragged. His tie was loosened, his white shirt creased, and the dark circles under his eyes had deepened into bruised hollows. Behind him stood Marco, holding a thick, brown accordion folder bound with yellow twine.
“Leo, go upstairs with Miss Clara for a few minutes,” Adrian said softly. His voice was raspy, stripped of its usual crisp authority. “I need to speak with Willa.”
Leo looked between us, his small face tightening with that familiar, watchful terror, but he gathered his drawing pad and scurried out the side door without a word.
Once the door clicked shut, Adrian leaned his hands against the kitchen island, bowing his head. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy, ragged breath.
“What happened at the courthouse?” I asked, sliding off the counter and coming around to stand beside him.
“Arthur didn't make it to his arraignment,” Adrian whispered.
I froze. “What do you mean?”
Adrian lifted his head, his dark eyes filled with a grim, chilling light. “He had a stroke in his holding cell at the federal building ninety minutes ago. He’s in a coma at Northwestern Memorial. The doctors say he won't wake up.”
“And Julian?”
“Julian posted bail an hour ago,” Marco spoke up from the doorway, his tone laced with venom. “A anonymous shell company out of Delaware put up the five million cash bond. He walked out the side exit before my men could tag his car.”
The air in the room turned ice-cold.
“Arthur was the fall guy,” I realized, the horrifying truth dawning on me. “He was taking the blame for the whole embezzlement scheme, but he wasn't the mastermind. The person who paid Julian’s bail... they’re the ones who really wanted those ledgers destroyed.”
Adrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver key attached to a heavy brass tag stamped with the number 408. He placed it on the counter between us.
“Arthur’s lawyer handed me this right before the ambulances arrived,” Adrian said. “He said Arthur gave it to him three months ago with very specific instructions. If anything happened to him—if he was arrested or hospitalized—it was to be delivered directly to me.”
May you like
I looked at the brass tag. “Keyhole deposit box? A private vault?”
“The Lakeshore Heritage Hotel,” Adrian replied, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Room 408. The room directly above the blue door where Leo disappeared.”
