Chapter 7 - TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
The coordinates led to an abandoned mining property outside Laramie.
The FBI took control.
I was ordered to remain in Denver.
I didn’t argue.
That surprised Naomi.
“You’re actually listening?”
“I’m learning.”
The truth was simpler.
David wanted me physically present.
Therefore, the most useful thing I could do was disappoint him.
Instead, we studied the photograph.
Eleanor noticed something first.
“The clock.”
“What about it?”
“It’s not showing local time.”
The image timestamp was 3:13 a.m.
The clock behind Arthur showed 5:13.
Two hours ahead.
Eastern Time.
Rebecca zoomed into a metal sign on the wall.
Only three letters remained visible.
…ION.
Justin said, “Station?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“Distribution.”
Rollins Global owned seventeen distribution facilities in Eastern Time.
Only one had been decommissioned recently.
Pittsburgh.
Naomi called field offices immediately.
The Wyoming coordinates were a decoy.
At 6:40 a.m., federal agents entered the abandoned Pittsburgh facility.
No Arthur.
But they found evidence someone had been there.
Chair restraints.
Medical supplies.
A broken pair of glasses belonging to Arthur.
And a second clue.
A handwritten number:
17.
David was turning it into a game.
I hated him for that.
Then my mother called.
“You need to see something.”
She had found an old photograph album.
Page seventeen.
A family vacation at Lake Erie.
My father.
David.
Arthur.
And behind them—
An old lakeside house our grandfather once owned near Sandusky, Ohio.
Property seventeen in a family inventory.
Agents reached the house after dark.
Arthur was inside.
So was Michael Crane.
Crane tried escaping through the rear door.
Agents arrested him.
Arthur survived.
David wasn’t there.
When I spoke to Arthur from the hospital, his first words were:
“He wanted me to tell you something.”
“What?”
“That Harrison stole the company.”
“From him?”
“Yes.”
I knew part of the family history.
My grandfather had originally planned joint leadership.
Then David made a disastrous leveraged investment that nearly bankrupted a subsidiary.
Harrison took control.
David was pushed out.
“He thinks Dad betrayed him.”
Arthur sighed.
“David has spent thirty years editing that story until he became its hero.”
Michael Crane eventually talked.
Not because he found a conscience.
Because federal prosecutors showed him the rest of his life.
Crane admitted administering medication to my father through what Harrison believed was treatment for indigestion during the charity dinner.
Victor arranged the opportunity.
David ordered it.
Crane falsified records afterward.
“Did Kenneth know?” I asked.
“Yes.”
My hands curled.
“How soon?”
“Before the funeral.”
Kenneth had held me at my father’s funeral knowing my father had been murdered.
There are betrayals that hurt.
Then there are betrayals so large they permanently reorganize the person who receives them.
Mine did.
Kenneth entered plea negotiations.
His attorneys wanted reduced sentencing for cooperation.
Rebecca asked whether I wanted to submit a victim statement.
“Yes.”
I spent an entire night writing it.
Then deleted every word.
The next morning, I wrote four sentences.
Kenneth Rollins did not merely deceive me as a husband. He participated in a conspiracy that exploited grief, manipulated my medical autonomy, damaged my family and concealed knowledge surrounding my father’s death. I am not asking the court for revenge. I am asking the court to ensure he never again has the power to do this to another person.
That was enough.
Maya also negotiated.
She faced prison for financial crimes but received consideration for cooperation.
Justin didn’t celebrate.
“I thought I’d feel better.”
“You lost a marriage.”
“She betrayed me.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.”
He looked at me.
“Do you still love Kenneth?”
I considered it.
“No.”
“Hate him?”
“Some days.”
“And other days?”
“I don’t want him occupying that much space in my life.”
That was new.
Weeks passed.
Arthur recovered.
Victor was indicted.
Crane was charged.
Kenneth formally pleaded guilty to multiple federal counts.
Atlas Capital began collapsing internationally.
Only David remained.
Then Switzerland located him.
Not in Switzerland.
In Montreal.
Canadian authorities planned the arrest.
David escaped twelve hours before they arrived.
Someone had warned him.
An insider.
Naomi became furious.
Only a small group knew.
Federal prosecutors.
Canadian authorities.
Rebecca.
Arthur.
Me.
Justin.
Then Eleanor discovered something.
A login from Rollins Global’s legal server.
At 11:17 p.m., someone accessed sealed investigative documents.
User credentials:
Rebecca Sloan.
I stared at Rebecca.
She stared back.
“I didn’t do that.”
Naomi asked,
“Where were you at 11:17?”
“Asleep.”
“Can anyone verify?”
“No.”
Justin swore.
Rebecca became pale.
“My credentials were compromised.”
“By whom?”
She looked toward the audit log.
Then whispered:
“My assistant.”
Her assistant, Chloe Mercer, had worked with her for nine years.
Chloe disappeared that morning.
Her apartment was empty.
Her bank account contained a recent deposit.
Two million dollars.
David had another insider.
And now he knew almost everything we knew.
At 4:00 p.m., Chloe’s abandoned vehicle was discovered near the Canadian border.
Inside was a phone.
One unsent draft message:
He’s coming back to Denver.
May you like
David was no longer fleeing.
He was coming home.
