Chapter 9: The Broadcast
The television in Mrs. Gable’s living room flickered with the blue light of a breaking news special report at 6:00 AM. The anchor, a seasoned investigative journalist with dark circles under his eyes, leaned forward over the news desk. A massive graphic behind him displayed a still frame of the Grand Vane Hotel ballroom, frozen precisely at the moment Preston swung the oak menu board into the display stand.
“Good morning,” the anchor’s voice filled the small farmhouse. “New developments this hour in the unfolding Vane Enterprises corporate scandal. Federal investigators, acting on digital evidence packages delivered earlier this week, have executed search warrants across multiple properties tied to CEO Preston Vane. Hours ago, legal representatives for an anonymous whistleblower submitted physical forensic evidence—including a primary display board recovered from an industrial storage unit—directly to the United States District Court.”
The screen cut from the ballroom still to footage of federal agents carrying a large, heavy oak panel wrapped in evidence plastic out of a secure courier facility. Even through the protective wrap, the glint of gold calligraphy was unmistakable.
I sat on the worn floral sofa, a mug of black coffee cooling between my hands, while Lily slept peacefully in the adjacent room, cocooned in a nest of quilted blankets. Marcus stood by the window, peering through the blinds at the empty gravel road outside.
"They’re trying to cut a plea," Marcus said quietly, not taking his eyes off the road. "Preston’s father just resigned as chairman of the board. Their stock dropped another twenty-two percent at the opening bell. The board of directors is voting to oust Preston by noon today."
"It's not enough just to oust him," I said, my voice cold and steady. "A boardroom ouster lets him walk away with a golden parachute and a new identity in Zurich. He needs to answer for what he did in that private suite three years ago, and what he tried to do to my daughter on that ballroom floor."
My phone, lying face up on the coffee table, suddenly vibrated. It wasn't an unknown number this time. It was Preston’s personal cell.
I stared at the screen as the phone rang once, twice, three times. Then it went to voicemail. A text message popped up immediately beneath the missed call notification: Please, Evelyn. Let’s talk. Name your terms. Just stop the press releases. My mother is ruined.
I picked up the phone. I didn't block the number this time. Instead, I typed a single, brief reply:
You should have checked the CCTV.
May you like
I hit send, then powered the phone down completely, removing the battery and sliding it across the table.
Marcus turned away from the window, a slow, approving nod touching his tired face. "Well, Evelyn. Looks like the courtroom doors are finally opening. Are you ready to walk through them?"
