Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Living
The morning sun had not yet broken through the heavy coastal fog when the first limousine pulled up the grand circular driveway of the Cross estate.
My mother, Carol, was the first to step out, her face carefully composed into an expression of aristocratic grief. She wore a high-collared grey wool coat and dark glasses, looking every bit the tragedy-stricken mother who had sacrificed her youngest child to save her dynasty. Behind her came my father, Thomas, his chest puffed out with the unearned confidence of a man who had just received a ten-million-dollar wire transfer, and my brother Marcus, who was already on his phone, likely checking his offshore betting balances.
They had been summoned to the estate under the pretense of a "post-nuptial asset consolidation meeting."
I stood at the top of the grand, double-curved staircase, watching them enter the limestone foyer.
"Evelyn, darling," my mother called out, her heels clicking on the marble as she hurried toward the stairs. She didn't look at my face; she looked at the grand chandelier above us, then at the antique tapestries lining the walls. "What a magnificent place. I must say, old Mr. Vale has exquisite taste. Where is he? We must thank him again for his extraordinary generosity."
"He's in the study, Mother," I said, my voice empty of the warmth she expected. "He’s waiting for you."
Marcus smirked as he pocketed his phone. "Well, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a meeting with the port authority at noon. Now that we’ve got Vale’s capital, we’re resuming the north harbor expansion."
"You won't be resuming anything, Marcus," I said quietly, turning on my heel and leading them down the long gallery toward the library.
My father frowned, his heavy brow furrowing. "What did you say, girl? Watch your tone. You’re a wife now, but you’re still a Carter."
I didn't answer. I pushed open the double oak doors of the library.
The room was dark, the heavy green velvet curtains drawn against the morning fog. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows across the rows of leather-bound books. Sitting in the high-backed leather chair behind the mahogany desk was a figure in a dark suit, his face obscured by the high back of the seat.
"Alden," my father said, stepping forward with his hand outstretched, his voice booming with false camaraderie. "Good morning. We brought the corporate registries as requested. Let’s get these signatures out of the way so we can—"
The chair slowly rotated.
Adrian Cross sat there, his tailored charcoal suit fitting his broad shoulders perfectly, his hands clasped over his knee. The silver cane was leaning against the corner of the desk, a silent mockery of the man they thought they knew.
My mother gasped, taking a step back, her hand flying to her throat. "Who... who are you? Where is Mr. Vale?"
Marcus's hand went to his pockets, his eyes darting toward the door. "What is this? Is this some kind of joke?"
My father, however, didn't speak. He stared at Adrian’s face, his eyes widening as the phantom of a man he had murdered ten years ago seemed to rise from the leather chair. "Julian... Julian Cross?"
"No, Thomas," Adrian said, his voice dropping like a heavy iron portcullis. "Julian Cross is in the municipal cemetery on 5th Street. I am Adrian. His son."
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
"Adrian," my father whispered, his face turning a pasty, yellow-white. "You... you were in Europe. The bank said—"
"The bank said what you paid them to say, Thomas," Adrian said, standing up. He didn't lean on the desk. He stood straight, towering over my father with the quiet, menacing presence of a predator that had finally cornered its prey. "For ten years, I’ve watched you run my father's company into the dirt. I watched you build your vulgar mansions with his money, and I watched your son gamble away the lives of your laborers. But the lease is up."
He reached onto the desk and picked up the manila folder I had prepared for him. He tossed it onto the mahogany table.
"Under the terms of the ten-million-dollar collateral agreement you signed before the wedding," Adrian said, "the Carter Construction Group pledged eighty percent of its voting shares as security against immediate default. And as of eight o'clock this morning... you are in default."
"Default?" Marcus yelled, his voice cracking with sudden panic. "That’s impossible! The first interest payment isn't due for thirty days!"
"The interest payment isn't the issue, Marcus," I said, stepping out from the shadows near the window.
My mother spun around, her eyes wide with a venomous, bewildered rage. "Evelyn! What have you done? Who is this man?"
"This is my husband, Mother," I said, looking at her with a calm, flat expression. "And he’s right. You are in default because of Section 9 of the agreement. The covenant of accurate financial disclosure. You swore under penalty of perjury that the company’s assets were clear of any active criminal investigations or material liabilities."
I reached onto the desk, picked up my tablet, and tapped the screen. The display showed a live feed of the federal court registry for the Eastern District.
"At 8:15 AM," I said, "the United States Attorney for the Southern District of South Carolina accepted a formal filing for an investigation into Hampton Lands LLC and Carter Construction for bank fraud, bribery, and the manufacturing of false engineering surveys regarding the 2016 Vista del Mar project."
May you like
My father fell back into one of the armchairs, his chest heaving, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "No... no, those files were destroyed. I ordered them erased."
"You ordered me to erase them, Father," I said. "But as you’ve always told me... I’m just the daughter. I don't always understand how to follow directions."
