Chapter 2 - The Dismantling of Main Street
Back at the Vance estate, the Easter celebration had returned to its sickeningly cheerful rhythm.
Richard Vance poured himself another glass of twenty-year-old Scotch, leaning against the marble mantelpiece in the grand parlor. Eleanor was busy rearranging the silver chafing dishes for the evening dinner guests, her expression devoid of any human empathy.
“Honestly, Richard, you need to keep that girl on a shorter leash,” Eleanor complained, adjusting her diamond-encrusted brooch. “Making a scene like that in front of the neighbors? If the Taylors had seen her bleeding on that rug, it would have been a public relations nightmare.”
“Relax, Mother,” Richard scoffed, taking a leisurely sip of his drink. “The old man took her. She’ll learn her lesson. A few days in that miserable little trailer he lives in, and she’ll be crawling back begging to come home. They always do.”
He checked his gold Rolex. 4:15 PM.
Just as he raised the glass to his lips again, his cell phone buzzed violently on the mahogany side table.
Richard frowned, picking it up. It was a direct line to his private wealth manager at the Oakwood Commerce Bank. He swiped to answer, a smug grin plastered across his face. “Marcus, perfect timing. Did those offshore wire transfers clear from the Cayman accounts?”
Silence hung on the line. But it wasn't the silence of a bad connection—it was the heavy, suffocating silence of absolute panic.
“Mr. Vance,” Marcus’s voice trembled, breathless and cracked. “We… we have a catastrophic emergency.”
Richard’s smug smile faltered. “What are you talking about? Speak up.”
“Every single corporate and personal account associated with Vance Industries has been locked,” Marcus stammered, the sound of frantic typing echoing in the background. “Federal and state auditors just executed a simultaneous freeze order. The SEC, the IRS, and the Department of Justice’s financial crimes division—they’ve seized our primary operating capital, our commercial real estate holdings, and all secondary liquidity trusts.”
The glass slipped from Richard’s fingers, shattering against the Persian rug—the very same rug where Lily’s blood was still drying.
“Seized?!” Richard roared, his face draining of its color. “Are you out of your mind?! My grandfather founded that bank! Call the regional director! Tell him who I am!”
“I tried, Mr. Vance!” Marcus cried out over the phone. “The regional director was arrested thirty seconds ago by federal marshals on charges of systemic bribery and money laundering! They’re walking out of the building with boxes of server hard drives right now! Your accounts are gone—all of them! We are completely liquidated!”
The phone slipped from Richard’s nerveless fingers, clattering onto the floor.
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Eleanor spun around from the buffet table, her eyes wide with shock. “Richard? What is it? What’s happened?”
Before Richard could answer, the massive oak front doors of the estate didn't just open—they blew inward with a deafening, splintering crash.
