The screen instantly shifted from Elena’s tear-streaked face to a crystal-clear audio waveform, followed by the unmistakable sound of Julian’s voice echoing through the national broadcast: *‘Once Vance is locked away for embezzlement and homicide, the entire holding company falls into our laps. Nobody will ever suspect a thing.’*
The silence in my study was absolute, broken only by the hum of the climate control system.
"And that," I whispered, setting my coffee cup down with a sharp *clack* against the glass table, "is what happens when amateurs play with professionals."
* * *
By noon, the public backlash was nothing short of apocalyptic.
The internet is a fickle, bloodthirsty beast, and the collective rage of millions of deceived viewers turned on Elena and Julian with terrifying speed. Within two hours of our data drop, internet sleuths had doxed Julian’s private residence, dug up his college disciplinary records for academic fraud, and unearthed a trail of SEC violations tied to his previous corporate clients.
Outside Julian’s high-rise law offices downtown, a mob of angry protesters had already formed, holding up placards demanding his disbarment. Reputable news outlets that had fawned over Elena’s victimhood hours earlier now scrambled to distance themselves, running scathing retrospective pieces on her extravagant spending habits and secret offshore accounts.
My phone buzzed violently against the mahogany desk. It was an incoming call from an unlisted, heavily encrypted satellite frequency.
I let it ring twice before swiping to answer, keeping my voice utterly flat. "Vance."
"You're a hard man to reach, Marcus," a raspy, gravel-rough voice came through the speaker. It sounded like someone who had spent thirty years inhaling cheap cigarette smoke in underground parking garages.
"I'm a very busy man," I replied, spinning my heavy Montblanc pen between my fingers. "And unless you're calling to apologize for wasting my morning, you have about ten seconds before I block this frequency permanently."
"Hold on, hold on, don't hang up," the caller rasped, a nervous edge cutting through his tone. "I saw what you did to Hayes and your wife. Nasty piece of work, that exposure. But it got me thinking... you've been tearing apart everyone in their little conspiracy, haven't you?"
"Get to the point."
"The point is," the caller whispered, lowering his voice as if someone might be listening over his shoulder, "everyone's talking about the blood on your wife's dress. Everyone thinks it was fake stage blood from a prop shop, or maybe a setup to frame you for murder."
My grip on the pen tightened until my knuckles turned stark white. The ambient sounds of the city outside faded into a sharp, singular focus. "Go on."
"It wasn't fake, Mr. Vance," the caller said, a chill running straight down my spine. "And it wasn't yours, either. I know whose blood was actually on Elena's dress that night. And if the price is right... I might just tell you where the body is buried."
Chapter Eight
The silence that rushed back into my office was heavy enough to crack glass. For a fraction of a second, my heart skipped a frantic beat, then slammed against my ribs with the force of a hydraulic piston. The Montblanc pen slipped from my numb fingers, clattering loudly against the dark mahogany surface of my desk.
"Careful with your breathing, Mr. Vance," the gravelly voice whispered through the speaker, laced with a toxic mix of fear and greed. "I know this isn't the kind of bedtime story you expected to hear tonight. But desperation makes people talk. And right now, I'm feeling very, very desperate."
I leaned forward, planting both palms flat on the cold wood, dragging my voice down into a low, controlled register that brooked no argument. "If this is some sick prank—some twisted extension of Arthur Hayes’s pathetic little games—I will find you. I will strip you of everything you’ve ever owned, and I will ensure you spend the rest of your natural life in a concrete box. Do we understand each other?"
"It’s no game," the caller snapped back, a sudden surge of defensive venom hardening his tone. "You think I’d call Marcus Vance for a laugh? Look out your window, Mr. Vance. Penthouse suite, corner office, overlooking the river. Nice view of the skyline. You think you’re untouchable up here in your glass cage, but out there on the street? People are rotting for what your wife and her little club covered up."
My eyes snapped toward the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The lights of downtown glittered like a field of fractured diamonds against the velvet black of the night. A few specks of rain began to streak across the exterior pane, distorting the skyline into blurred smears of neon and shadow.
"You know my location," I said, my jaw clenching so hard my molars ached. "You’re close."
"Close enough to see your silhouette pacing behind that glass," the voice rasped. "Close enough to know that Elena didn't just walk into that gala with a theatrical stain on her silk skirt. That was Type O-negative. Warm, fresh, and human."
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. Type O-negative. Elena’s medical records listed her blood type as A-positive. Mine was B-positive. For months, the police, the tabloids, and my own internal investigators had chased every ghost in the machine, assuming the smear on her designer dress was either a clumsy frame-job or a sick theatrical prop meant to intimidate me during our bitter custody battle.
*Human.*
"Whose?" I demanded, the word tearing out of my throat like jagged glass. "Whose blood was it?"
"Not over an open line," the caller hissed, paranoia bleeding heavily into his words. "Too many ears. Too many digital footprints. You want the truth about that night? You want to know whose body is currently feeding the roots down in the old quarry off Route 9?"
"Name your price," I interrupted, cutting through his rambling. I didn't care about the zeroes on the check. I would wire him a million dollars right this second if it meant tearing away the final layer of Elena’s deceit.
"Twenty thousand," the caller said after a tense, agonizing beat of static. "In cash. Non-marked. Brought to a public place where I can see you aren't packing a tail. No cops. No private security hounds like that pit bull you keep on a leash."
"Done," I said instantly. "Where and when?"
"Not yet, Mr. Vance. You're too eager. I need to know you're taking me seriously. Walk over to your window."
My muscles locked. "What?"
"You heard me. Walk over to the glass. Look down at the corner of 5th and Madison. Street level. Beside the newsstand with the flashing neon sign."
Slowly, carefully, I straightened up from the desk. My legs felt heavy, like they were filled with wet lead, but I forced myself across the plush Persian rug. The rain outside was picking up, turning into a steady, gray sheet that blurred the dizzying drop down to the pavement below.