Chapter 8 - The Man Behind the GlassThe reflection led to a vacant office building three blocks from Vance Tower.
Twenty-four hours earlier, Caleb was the man I wanted out of my life.
Now he was on the phone telling me his father might be trying to kill someone.
That didn't make Caleb innocent.
It made everything more dangerous.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"At my office."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"How do you know Richard ordered it?"
Caleb breathed hard.
"I heard him make a call."
"What call?"
"He said, 'Take care of the girl before she talks.'"
Vanessa covered her mouth.
Elena motioned for me to keep Caleb talking.
"What girl?"
"I thought Claire."
Claire stiffened.
She had joined us at my father's penthouse earlier.
Caleb continued.
"Then he said something about the garage."
"Why are you warning me?"
"Savannah, I know what I did."
"No, you don't."
"I know enough."
"You hit me."
Silence.
"I know."
"You forged my signature."
Another silence.
"I know."
"You cheated."
"I know."
"You helped your father steal from me."
His voice broke.
"I know."
There was no defense left in him.
Just the rubble.
"I can't undo any of that."
"No."
"But I can stop this."
"How?"
"I have access to his private server."
Elena leaned closer.
I asked, "What server?"
"Richard keeps an offline archive. Contracts, recordings, offshore accounts."
"Why would he let you access it?"
"He didn't."
Of course.
"Then how?"
"I copied his credentials."
"Where is the server?"
"At the family house."
Evelyn spoke for the first time.
"Basement office."
Caleb heard her.
"Mom?"
Evelyn closed her eyes.
"Yes."
"Oh God."
"Don't."
Her voice became colder than I'd ever heard.
"Don't use God because you're afraid, Caleb."
He went silent.
Evelyn continued.
"You watched your father hurt everyone around you and decided power was better than decency."
"Mom—"
"And then you hit your wife."
His breathing changed.
"You have become him."
That sentence nearly broke him.
We heard something crash through the phone.
Then Caleb whispered, "I don't want to be."
Evelyn's eyes filled with tears.
"Then do one decent thing without asking what you'll get."
Caleb told us the server contained ledgers reaching back fifteen years.
Bribes.
Tax evasion.
Fraud.
Blackmail.
Potentially enough to dismantle Richard's entire network.
The problem?
Richard knew Caleb had turned against him.
We could hear footsteps outside Caleb's office.
"Savannah," he said.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
I didn't answer.
"I'm not saying that so you'll forgive me."
"Good."
"I just need you to know I understand now."
"Understand what?"
"Why you stopped looking at me like I was someone you loved."
A knock sounded.
Caleb went silent.
Another knock.
"Mr. Prescott?"
A man's voice.
Security.
Caleb whispered, "He's here."
"Who?"
"My father."
The line disconnected.
For the next twenty minutes, we couldn't reach him.
Then an email appeared in Elena's inbox.
Scheduled delivery.
From Caleb.
It contained instructions.
If you're reading this, Richard has probably taken my phone.
There is a key in my office, taped beneath the middle drawer of my desk.
It opens a safe behind the wine rack in my parents' basement.
The server backup is inside.
Do not trust Prescott security.
Do not come unless law enforcement is with you.
And one final line.
Savannah, I know sorry doesn't fix what I became.
You deserved a husband who protected your dignity even when nobody was watching.
I was the opposite.
I'm ashamed.
I reread it twice.
Then closed the laptop.
I didn't cry.
There are apologies that restore relationships.
And apologies that merely acknowledge why they can never be restored.
Caleb's was the second kind.
Federal agents obtained the warrant faster than I expected.
By 2:00 a.m., Richard Prescott's estate was surrounded.
I didn't go.
Neither did Evelyn.
We waited in my father's living room.
At 3:17, Elena received the call.
The server had been recovered.
So had Caleb.
Alive.
Richard was gone.
He had left through a service tunnel beneath the property that dated back to Prohibition.
My father almost laughed when he heard that.
"Of course Richard Prescott has a villain tunnel."
Nobody else found it funny.
By dawn, police were searching airports, private airfields, marinas, and known properties.
Richard Prescott had money.
Connections.
And enough fear to make him unpredictable.
Caleb was taken to a hospital after suffering two broken ribs and a concussion.
Apparently, Richard's security men had beaten him while demanding to know who else had copies of the evidence.
For a few minutes, I felt sorry for him.
Then I touched my healing cheek.
Compassion and accountability could exist together.
I could feel pity for his injuries and still refuse to erase mine.
At eight, Caleb's attorney called.
He wanted to cooperate.
Full confession.
Financial fraud.
Forgery.
Obstruction.
Everything.
In exchange, prosecutors might consider his cooperation later.
Not immunity.
Caleb agreed anyway.
His first statement lasted six hours.
By evening, three executives had been arrested.
Two lawyers resigned.
Four shell companies were frozen.
And Richard Prescott was officially declared a fugitive.
But he hadn't disappeared quietly.
At 7:43 p.m., every major financial reporter in the country received an anonymous package.
The fabricated emails accusing my father of manipulating Prescott Development.
Within twenty minutes, headlines began appearing.
VANCE INTERNATIONAL CHAIRMAN ACCUSED OF SECRET DEBT SCHEME.
Dad watched the television without moving.
Our company's stock hadn't opened yet.
But overseas markets were already reacting.
Elena cursed under her breath.
"This is Richard's leverage."
My father looked at me.
"He expects us to panic."
"Will we?"
"No."
"What will we do?"
My father reached for the remote and turned off the television.
"Tell the truth."
Simple.
Almost painfully simple.
But truth moved slower than scandal.
By morning, reporters surrounded Vance Tower.
Cable networks replayed old footage of Dad.
Online commentators declared him guilty, innocent, corrupt, brilliant, evil, misunderstood, and everything in between.
Then one reporter discovered my marriage to Caleb.
The story exploded again.
HEIRESS SECRETLY MARRIED TO PRESCOTT SON.
Suddenly, I wasn't a private citizen anymore.
My bruised face appeared in a photograph taken outside the courthouse.
That was the moment Richard made his next move.
At 11:06 a.m., I received a text.
No number.
Just a secure message.
A photograph.
My father walking out of Vance Tower.
A red circle drawn around his head.
Under it, seven words.
DROP THE CHARGES OR HE DIES NEXT.
I stared at the screen.
My hands went cold.
Dad saw my face.
"What?"
I turned the phone toward him.
He read it.
Then, astonishingly, he smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because Richard had made a mistake.
"What?" I asked.
Dad pointed to the photograph.
"Look at the reflection."
In the glass behind him was the faint outline of a street sign.
And beneath it, part of a storefront awning.
Marcus enlarged the image.
His expression changed.
"I know where this was taken."
Five minutes later, federal agents were moving.
May you like
Because Richard Prescott thought he was threatening us.
Instead, he had just told us where he was.
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