Chapter 8: The Northern Route
The highway signs changed from green to dark weathered brown as the miles accumulated behind us, marking the entry into Wisconsin. The morning air carried the clean, sharp scent of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the sulfurous industrial tang of the Chicago shipping yards where Luca Moretti kept his silent offices. My daughter, Maya—I had whispered her full name to myself while crossing the state line—slept soundly in her car seat, her chest rising and falling in steady, rhythmic motion. Every few miles, a transport truck would thunder past in the opposite lane, its wake rocking the station wagon slightly, but she didn't even twitch.
I pulled off at a rest stop near Kenosha, parking beneath the heavy shade of a maple tree whose leaves were just beginning to curl into amber edges. The gravel crunched under my boots as I stepped out, the cool wind hitting my face and reminding me of the small scratch on my cheek—a faint, stinging reminder of the hospital corridor where Julian had lunged for her less than twenty-four hours ago. My fingers went to the spot instinctively, then dropped away. I walked around to the back door, unlatched the carrier, and lifted her out, holding her tight against my chest in her striped blanket.
Inside the small, tile-floored rest stop restroom, the fluorescent lights buzzed with a low, hypnotic hum. I set my canvas bag on the counter, unzipped it, and pulled out the clean flannel sleeper Luca's people had packed for her. As I changed her diaper and dressed her, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair was tied back in a messy knot, pulled away from a face that looked hollowed out around the eyes, yet remarkably clear. The woman in the mirror wasn't the frightened ornament who had smiled politely beside Julian Vance at charity galas while her credit cards were monitored and her phone calls recorded. That woman had stayed in the hospital gown on the floor of the wood-paneled corridor.
My burner phone buzzed in my pocket, vibrating against my hip with a sharp, insistent rattle. I pulled it out, staring at the unrecognized number glowing on the screen. I pressed answer and held it to my ear without speaking.
"You're making good time," Luca's voice came through, steady and low, cut through by the faint click of a lighter opening and closing on the other end. "State troopers pulled over a black sedan matching Julian's lawyer's plates outside Rockford twenty minutes ago. They found four burner phones and two briefcases full of cash intended for an offshore courier. The freeze is holding."
"And Julian?" I asked, leaning my hip against the tile counter, resting my palm on Maya's back as she lay quiet on the fold-down baby station.
"He's barricaded himself inside his townhouse on Astor Street," Luca said, his voice devoid of satisfaction, carrying only a flat, clinical professionalism. "His PR firm dropped him an hour ago. The board of the Vance Foundation is convening an emergency vote at noon to strip his name from the endowment. He's finished, Elena. He just doesn't know how to stop shouting yet."
"Thank you, Luca," I said, the words feeling heavy and inadequate, yet the only ones that mattered. "For the car, the papers... everything."
"Don't thank me yet," he replied, a dry edge touching his tone. "The people who funded Julian's overseas accounts aren't lawyers. They don't care about federal asset freezes or board resolutions. When a dog like Julian gets cornered by men in suits, he usually turns to men who don't wear them. Keep your doors locked, Elena. I'm sending a car to meet you at the cabin in Door County. Stay inside until they arrive."
May you like
The line went dead with a soft click.
I stood in the fluorescent-lit silence for a long moment, listening to the hum of the overhead tubes. Then I scooped Maya into my arms, zipped the diaper bag, and walked back out into the bright, indifferent morning light.
