Chapter 3 - The Day After ChristmasDecember 25th passed in a quiet, beautiful blur.
I spent the entire day with Sophie at a quiet resort cabin in Hocking Hills that I had booked under my corporate account. We drank hot chocolate by a massive stone fireplace, opened the real presents I had hidden in the back of my truck—a high-end camera rig she’d been eyeing for months and a new laptop—and ate steak dinners cooked on an iron skillet.
Not once did my phone ring.
I had turned off my personal phone on Christmas morning. I knew Claire was probably sending text messages reminding me to pick up my remaining clothes from her garage, or Martin was sending angry notes about the cost of fixing his broken Tuscan oak door.
They thought I was sitting in a cheap motel somewhere, crying into a beer, wondering how I was going to pay rent.
They had no idea that while they were eating Christmas dinner, Arthur Vance and a team of forensic accountants were systematically locking every digital gate in their lives.
On the morning of December 26th, at 7:45 A.M., the weather had cleared, leaving a bright, brilliant blue sky over the icy streets of Mason, Ohio.
Inside Martin Collins’ house, the living room was still messy from Christmas Day celebrations. Wrapping paper littered the rug, expensive scotch bottles sat half-empty on the kitchen counter, and Martin was sitting at his breakfast island in a silk bathrobe, drinking black coffee while scrolling through his iPad.
Claire walked down the stairs wearing a cashmere sweater, looking tired.
“Did Daniel call you back?” Martin asked, without looking up from his screen.
“No,” Claire said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “His phone goes straight to voicemail. He’s probably hiding at his sister’s house in Dayton, throwing a pity party.”
“Good,” Steven said, walking in from the garage holding a toasted bagel. “The guy was a absolute leech. I still can’t believe we let him fix the plumbing in this house. He left grease stains on the cellar door.”
“Well, it doesn't matter now,” Martin boasted, taking a sip of coffee. “I spoke with the corporate headhunters in Chicago yesterday. Once our Q4 bonuses clear from Whitaker Construction on Friday, I’m putting a deposit down on that boat in Florida. My bonus should be around ninety grand this year.”
“Mine’s forty-five,” Steven grinned. “Todd said he’s taking his kids to Belize.”
At exactly 8:02 A.M., a heavy silver armored sedan pulled up to the curb outside the broken front door of the Collins residence—which had been temporarily boarded up with a sheet of rough plywood.
Two men in sharp, charcoal-grey suits stepped out of the vehicle. One was Arthur Vance. Beside him was an off-duty state trooper acting as a private courier security detail.
Arthur walked up the brick steps, tapped politely on the plywood barrier, and stepped straight into the open foyer.
Martin stood up from the breakfast bar, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
Arthur Vance pulled a pair of rimless reading glasses from his coat pocket, placed them on his nose, and opened a sleek black leather briefcase.
“Martin Collins?” Arthur asked, his voice crisp and professional.
“Yeah, I’m Martin Collins,” Martin snapped, stepping into the foyer. “Who are you? If you’re here about the door insurance claim—”
“I am Arthur Vance, Chief Operating Officer and Senior Legal Counsel for Whitaker Construction & Home Solutions,” Arthur announced clearly.
Claire froze at the kitchen island, her coffee mug hovering halfway to her mouth.
Martin’s face instantly relaxed into a broad, arrogant smile. He extended his hand. “Ah! Mr. Vance! I’ve seen your name on the corporate memos from Chicago! It’s an honor, sir! I didn't realize executive council was visiting the regional office this week!”
Arthur ignored Martin’s outstretched hand. He didn't even glance at it.
Instead, Arthur reached into his briefcase and withdrew a thick packet of heavy white paper sealed with a red corporate stamp.
“I am here to execute a formal corporate directive on behalf of the sole owner and Chief Executive Officer of Whitaker Construction,” Arthur stated.
Steven walked out from the kitchen, looking intrigued. “Did the CEO send our Q4 bonus checks early?”
May you like
Arthur turned his gaze slowly toward Steven, then back to Martin.
“No, Mr. Collins,” Arthur said softly. “I am here to deliver forty-seven notices of immediate executive termination.”
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