Chapter 11 - The Empty PenthouseAt 12:16 PM, the heavy oak door of Condo 42B slammed shut, leaving behind a silence so absolute it was almost deafening.
Julian had been escorted down the private elevator by Deputy Vance, carrying a single rumpled duffel bag. Fiona had shuffled out beside him, clutching her designer purse, her face pale and sunken beneath her carefully applied makeup.
The lock on the front door clicked into place as a locksmith—whom Darcy had called two hours prior—finished installing a high-security digital keypad lock and heavy steel deadbolts.
I stood in the center of the vast living room.
The space was still dressed for a party that would never happen. White hydrangeas bloomed in crystal vases. The damask linen on the thirty-foot table gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. But the air felt different. The suffocating weight that had pressed against my chest for five long years was gone, replaced by the cool, clean breeze drifting off Lake Michigan.
Darcy walked back in from the foyer, setting her leather briefcase on the quartz island.
"The new lock codes are programmed," Darcy said, handing me a sleek black keycard. "Julian's biometric access to the building's elevator and garage has been revoked by the HOA manager. I personally handed the building superintendent a certified copy of the Order of Protection."
I took the keycard, feeling its cool, smooth plastic against my palm. "What happens now?"
"Now," Darcy smiled, pouring two glasses of ice water from the fridge, "we go to war for every single penny they stole from you."
She handed me a glass and leaned against the counter—the very counter where Julian had smashed his hand sixteen hours earlier.
"Julian’s attorney called my office three minutes ago," Darcy continued. "A man named Harrison from a boutique firm in the Loop. He sounded utterly shell-shocked. He’s already trying to float a quiet settlement."
"What did he offer?"
"He offered for Julian to waive all claims to the condo if you drop the criminal complaint for unlawful restraint and agree not to pursue the seventy-four thousand dollars Fiona funneled out of your joint account."
I set my glass down on the counter with a quiet, firm tap.
"Tell Harrison no," I said. "Tell him I’m not dropping a single charge. And tell him that if Julian wants a settlement, he has forty-eight hours to provide a complete accounting of his consulting firm’s tax filings for the last three years."
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Darcy’s eyes sparkled with fierce pride. "I knew I didn't need to teach you how to do this. You're a financial analyst, Sloan. You know where the bodies are buried."
"I don't just know where they're buried," I whispered, looking toward the dark, open door of the pantry. "I helped dig the graves."
