CHAPTER 24
MALCOLM
The flames on the television screen are a bright, violent orange against the dark sky. The news anchor is speaking rapidly, her voice a low drone of sensationalism, but I am not listening to the words. I am analyzing the structural collapse of the east wing.
It is a clean burn. Too clean.
The east wing of the Vance estate houses the guest suites and the secondary library. It is entirely disconnected from the primary living quarters, the master suites, and the vault where Preston keeps his physical ledgers. Whoever set the fire wanted a spectacle, not a casualty.
They wanted a headline.
"Malcolm."
Audrey’s voice pulls my focus away from the screen. She is standing on the other side of the desk, her hands gripping the edge of the mahogany. She is pale, her eyes wide, the oversized t-shirt hanging off her shoulders.
I reach across the desk and hit the power button on the remote. The television goes dark.
"I didn't do it," I repeat, my voice dropping to a low, absolute register. I need her to understand that fact before the chaos completely breaches the walls of this apartment.
"I know you didn't." She doesn't hesitate. She doesn't ask for proof. She just looks at me, her trust so absolute it feels like a physical weight in my chest. "You were with me. We were here."
"The police will not care where we were." I walk around the desk, stopping in front of her. "Preston controls the police commissioner. He controls the narrative. He will use the statement you made at the dinner table to establish motive."
"I said you would hand me the gasoline," she whispers, the realization making her physically flinch. "I handed him the motive on a silver platter."
"You handed him a metaphor. He turned it into a felony.
" I reach out, my hands gripping her upper arms. "Listen to me, Audrey.
The next twelve hours are going to be critical.
The police will arrive at this building.
They will attempt to separate us. They will ask you questions designed to make you doubt my whereabouts. "
"I won't talk to them," she says immediately. "I’ll call Vivian. She’s a lawyer."
"Vivian is a corporate defense attorney. This is a criminal investigation." I drop my hands from her arms and pick up my phone from the desk. I hit Grant’s speed dial. "I have a criminal defense team on retainer. They will handle the police."
Grant answers on the first ring. The sound of sirens is audible in the background of his call. He isn't at the penthouse.
"Sir," Grant says, his voice tight. "I am currently three blocks away from the estate. The perimeter is entirely locked down by the fire department."
"I am watching the news," I say. "Where is Preston?"
"He is giving a statement to the chief of police. Simon is with him." Grant pauses. "They are running the narrative, Malcolm. They are telling the police that you threatened to destroy the family tonight in the library, and that you have a history of violent retaliation."
A dark, humorless laugh escapes my throat. "They are framing me for arson to invalidate my testimony regarding the offshore accounts."
"If you are indicted for a felony against your own family, your credibility as a whistleblower is completely destroyed," Grant confirms. "The SEC will not touch the files. Preston neutralized your leverage."
It is a brilliant, desperate move. Preston realized he couldn't beat me in a boardroom, so he burned his own house down to remove me from the board entirely.
"The police are en route to the penthouse," Grant continues. "They have a warrant for your arrest."
"Understood." I look at Audrey. She is watching me, her thumb pressing hard against the side of her index finger. "Have the legal team meet me at the precinct. Do not let them bring Audrey in for questioning."
"I will intercept the detectives in the lobby," Grant says. "I am on my way."
I end the call.
I look around the office. The quiet sanctuary we built over the last two weeks is gone. The war has breached the perimeter.
"They're coming here," Audrey says. It isn't a question.
"Yes." I walk toward her, my hands sliding around her waist to pull her flush against my chest. "They are going to arrest me."
She gasps, her hands flying up to grip my shirt. "No. Malcolm, you can't let them take you. You have the security footage from the lobby. You have the elevator logs. We can prove you were here."
"The footage proves I entered the building. It does not prove I stayed in the building." I press my mouth to her forehead, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. "Preston will argue that I slipped out through the service elevator. He will pay someone to testify that they saw me near the estate."
"Then we leave." She pulls back, looking up at me with frantic, desperate energy. "We leave right now. We take the SUV and we go."
"If I run, I prove his narrative." I slide my hands up her back, anchoring her to me. "I am not going to run from my father, Audrey. I am going to let him arrest me. I am going to let him think he won."
"Malcolm, please." A tear spills over her lashes, tracking down her cheek. "If they lock you up... if he pays off the judge..."
"He cannot pay off the judge." I wipe the tear away with my thumb. "Because he doesn't know what I actually took from the library tonight."
She blinks, the panic stalling for a fraction of a second. "What do you mean?"
I step back, keeping one hand on her waist, and reach into the pocket of the trousers I discarded on the chair earlier. I pull out a small, black USB drive. It is identical to the one I threw on the mahogany table in front of Preston.
"I gave Preston a drive containing the financial ledgers," I say quietly. "I told him it was the only copy. I lied."
Audrey stares at the drive. "You kept a backup."
"I kept the original." I press the drive into the palm of her hand, folding her fingers over it.
"Preston thinks he destroyed my leverage because he thinks my credibility is ruined.
But he doesn't realize that the files on this drive don't need my testimony.
They contain direct correspondence between Simon and the shell corporations.
They contain the IP addresses used to forge the transfer documents that moved your lease, client contracts, and operating account under his control. "
I look down at her hand, my fingers wrapping tightly around her fist.
"This drive does not exonerate me from the arson," I tell her, my voice dropping to a rough, absolute register. "But it destroys Simon. It destroys the holding company. If this drive reaches the federal prosecutor, Preston loses everything."
Audrey looks down at her hand, then up at me. The realization hits her with the force of a physical blow.
"You want me to take it to the feds," she whispers.
"I want you to hold it." I let go of her hand. "Preston will assume I have the files. He will try to pressure me in custody. He will not look for them here. He will not look at you."
"Malcolm, if they search the apartment—"
"They will not find it." I walk toward the door of the office. "Hide it, Audrey. Somewhere they won't look."
She doesn't argue. She doesn't ask where.
She turns around, scanning the office, her mind already working through the structural logistics of the room.
She walks over to the heavy oak bookshelf, pulls out a thick volume on architectural history, and slides the small drive into the hollow space behind the binding.
She slides the book back into place. It is flawless.
The sound of the private elevator chiming echoes through the quiet apartment.
The police are here.
Audrey freezes, her back to the bookshelf.
I cross the room in three strides. I pull her into my arms, burying my face in her neck. I don't care that the police are walking into my foyer. I don't care that my father just framed me for a felony.
I only care about the fact that I have to walk out of this apartment and leave her behind.
"Do not speak to the detectives," I murmur against her skin, my hands gripping her waist with a bruising, desperate force. "Do not let them into this office. Grant will be here in five minutes. He will not leave your side."
"I won't let them in," she promises, her voice shaking as she wraps her arms tightly around my neck. "I love you, Malcolm."
The words tear straight through my chest.
She didn't say it for the press this time. She didn't say it to win a corporate war. She said it while the police are walking down my hallway to arrest me.
I pull back, framing her face with my hands. I kiss her, a hard, fast, bruising collision of mouths that tastes like fear and absolute devotion.
"I love you," I say, the words feeling foreign and entirely permanent on my tongue. "I will be back."
I turn around and walk out of the office.
I pull the heavy oak door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place.
Four uniformed police officers and two plainclothes detectives are standing in the living room. They look entirely out of place against the minimalist, expensive furniture. One of the detectives, a man with a tired face and a cheap suit, steps forward.
"Malcolm Vance," the detective says, holding up a piece of paper. "We have a warrant for your arrest regarding the arson at the Vance estate in Lake Forest."
"I am aware," I reply, my voice completely flat. I don't look at the warrant. I look at the detective. "My legal counsel will meet us at the precinct."
"Turn around and place your hands behind your back, Mr. Vance."
I don't argue. I turn around, crossing my wrists behind my back. The cold, heavy metal of the handcuffs snaps around my wrists, biting into my skin.
"Clear the apartment," the second detective orders the uniformed officers.
"You do not have a search warrant," I say, my voice dropping to a lethal, warning register. "You have an arrest warrant. If your officers touch a single item in this penthouse, my lawyers will have your badges by morning."
The first detective hesitates. He knows I am right. He gestures for the officers to stand down.
"Let's go," the detective says, grabbing my bicep to lead me toward the elevator.
I don't look back at the closed door of the office. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead.
The ride down the elevator is silent. The lobby is empty, save for the night concierge, who looks completely terrified. The police lead me out the front doors and into the freezing Chicago night.
A squad car is waiting at the curb. The red and blue lights flash against the glass facade of the building.
As the detective pushes my head down to guide me into the back seat of the cruiser, I see a black SUV pull up to the opposite side of the street.
Grant steps out. He doesn't look at the police. He looks directly at me.
I give him a single, microscopic nod.
Protect her.
Grant nods back. He turns and walks into the building.
The door of the squad car slams shut, sealing me in the dark, cramped space. The car pulls away from the curb, the siren wailing as we merge onto the empty streets.
Preston thinks he won. He thinks he locked the monster in a cage.
He doesn't realize that the monster isn't the one he needs to worry about anymore.
I left the weapon in the penthouse. And she knows exactly where to aim.