I turn back to the screen.
It is an alert from the news aggregator software I set up this morning. TheChicago Tribunejust published a breaking news alert.
I click the link.
The headline dominates the screen in bold, black letters.
VANCE HOLDING COMPANY IMPLICATED IN DECADE-LONG FRAUD; FEDERAL PROBE LAUNCHES IMMEDIATE RAIDS.
Below the headline is a photograph of Preston Vance, looking arrogant and untouchable, taken at a charity event last year. The sub-headline is even more devastating.
Exclusive: Leaked documents reveal forged zoning permits, offshore accounts, and systemic corruption at the highest levels of Chicago’s most powerful real estate empire. CEO Preston Vance and his son, Simon Vance, named as primary targets of federal probe.
I scroll down the page. David didn't hold back. He published the redacted ledgers. He published the emails Simon sent to the shell corporations. He laid out the entire architecture of my family’s corruption with absolute, surgical precision.
"He did it," Audrey whispers, leaning over my shoulder to read the screen. "It’s everywhere."
My phone vibrates on the desk.
I pick it up. It is a text from Grant.
Grant (12:03 PM):The story is live. The federal prosecutor just issued a public statement confirming the investigation. FBI agents are currently entering the holding company headquarters downtown.
"The feds are raiding the building," I tell Audrey, setting the phone down.
She stares at the screen. The reality of what we just accomplished is finally hitting her. The man who stole her company, the man who humiliated her, the family that tried to erase her—they are currently watching their entire world burn to the ground.
"Simon is going to prison," she says, her voice sounding hollow.
"Yes."
"And Preston?"
"Preston is going to spend the rest of his life in a federal facility." I close the laptop. The sudden darkness of the screen reflects the dim light of the loft. "It is over, Audrey."
She doesn't celebrate. She doesn't smile. She just rests her forehead against the side of my head, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
"I thought I would feel happier," she admits quietly. "I thought I would feel like I won."
"Revenge is rarely satisfying in the moment," I murmur, reaching up to stroke her hair. "The satisfaction comes later, when you realize you no longer have to look over your shoulder."
My phone rings.
It isn't a text message. It is a phone call.
I look at the screen. The caller ID is blocked.
I don't answer blocked numbers. I reach out to decline the call, but a sudden, dark instinct makes my hand pause. Preston’s phone would have been confiscated by the feds if they raided the building. If he is trying to run, he is using a burner.
I hit accept and put the phone on speaker.
"Yes," I say flatly.
The line is silent for three seconds. Then, a voice speaks. It isn't Preston.
"Malcolm."
It’s Simon.
