"If Preston knows I have the drive," I say slowly, "he won't drop the charges. He’ll just send someone to take it from me."
"He will try," Grant agrees. "Which is why you are not going to tell him you have it."
"Then what am I supposed to do with it?"
Grant reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a sleek, silver smartphone and sets it on the mahogany desk.
"You are going to call Simon," Grant says.
I look at the phone, then back at Grant. "Simon? Simon is terrified of Preston. He won't do anything to help Malcolm."
"Simon is terrified of Preston," Grant acknowledges. "But Simon is also a coward who just realized his older brother is willing to burn the entire family to the ground. Simon doesn't want to go to federal prison. If he believes you are going to hand those files to the SEC tomorrow morning, he will panic. And when Simon panics, he makes mistakes."
I look down at the silver phone.
It is a massive risk. If Simon calls my bluff, if he goes straight to Preston instead of panicking, I lose the only leverage I have. Malcolm stays in jail, and Preston sends his contractors to tear this penthouse apart looking for the drive.
I am not going to let anyone look at you and see a liability.
I pick up the phone.
"What's the number?" I ask.
Grant recites a ten-digit number. "It is his direct line. It bypasses the holding company’s switchboard."
I dial the number. My hands are completely steady. The adrenaline has burned away the panic, leaving behind a cold, absolute clarity.
The phone rings twice.
"Simon Vance," a voice answers. He sounds exhausted, the arrogant edge completely missing from his tone.
"Simon," I say.
There is a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Audrey. How did you get this number?"
"It doesn't matter." I walk around the desk, sitting down in Malcolm’s leather chair. The chair is too big for me, but the smell of his cedar cologne lingers in the leather, anchoring me to the room. "I need to talk to you."
"I can't talk to you." Simon’s voice drops to a frantic whisper. "The police are still at the estate. Father is with the fire investigators. If he finds out I’m on the phone with you—"
"If you hang up this phone, Simon, I am going to email the forged transfer documents for my company to the Chicago Tribune," I interrupt smoothly. "And then I am going to email the offshore ledgers for the Cayman accounts to the SEC."
The silence on the line is absolute.
I can hear the faint sound of sirens in the background of his call. He is standing outside the burning mansion.
"Malcolm destroyed those files," Simon finally whispers, his voice shaking. "Father said he destroyed them in the library."
"Malcolm lied." I pick up the black USB drive, rolling it between my fingers. "He gave me the original drive before the police arrested him. I am holding it right now."
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?" I lean back in the chair. "Do you really want to bet your trust fund on it, Simon? You saw him at the gala. You saw what he was willing to do. He doesn't care about the company anymore. And neither do I."
Simon lets out a ragged, panicked breath. "What do you want?"
"I want Malcolm out of custody."
"I can't do that! Father filed the complaint. He told the police Malcolm threatened to burn the house down. I can't force him to drop the charges."
