Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at Back Bay
While Evan was being evicted from the Wellesley estate, Amber Hayes was sitting in the living room of her four-million-dollar condominium in Back Bay, drinking white wine and looking at real estate listings in Miami.
She believed she had gotten away with it.
There were no security cameras on the side gate. The police had accepted Evan's initial statement about a solo fall. Her name hadn't appeared in any of the news reports regarding the tragic "accident" of the prominent asset manager's wife.
At 8:30 PM, her doorbell rang.
Amber frowned, setting her glass down on the glass coffee table. She walked to the video intercom near her front entrance. "Who is it?"
"Delivery for Miss Hayes," a voice replied through the speaker. "Legal correspondence from Vance Asset Management."
Amber unlocked the heavy double doors, expecting a courier with corporate documents from Evan.
Instead, the doors were pushed open forcefully, stepping into her private foyer was Arthur Pendelton, flanked by two corporate forensic investigators and a court stenographer carrying a portable recording machine.
"What is this?" Amber demanded, stepping back toward her kitchen island, her voice rising in defensive anger. "Get out of my apartment! I’m calling the police!"
"I wouldn't recommend that, Miss Hayes," Arthur said, taking a seat on her velvet sofa without asking. "The police are already well aware of your activities. In fact, Detective Miller of the Wellesley Police Department is currently reviewing the cell phone tower ping data from last Saturday evening."
Amber went completely still. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale beneath her heavy makeup. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."
"On Saturday at 6:15 PM," Arthur said, reading from a tablet held by one of his investigators, "your personal iPhone connected to the cell tower located three hundred yards from 42 Fairview Lane in Wellesley. It remained connected until 6:48 PM—the exact minute Evan Vance dialed 911."
"I was at home!" Amber lied frantically. "I left my phone in my car!"
"Really?" Arthur smiled, a dark, terrifying expression. "Then perhaps you can explain why your credit card was used at the Willow Street coffee shop—two blocks from Clare's house—at 5:50 PM that same evening? Or why your green silk dress, which you wore to the office on Friday, currently has traces of gray tile sealant and microscopic blood splatters on the lower hem?"
Amber’s hand went to her throat. Her breathing became fast, shallow, and panicked. "Evan... Evan said he turned off the cameras..."
"Evan is an idiot," Arthur said flatly. "And more importantly, he is a coward. When his firm’s board of directors reviews the forensic audit report on Thursday morning, Evan will face twenty years in federal prison for grand larceny and corporate fraud. Do you honestly think he won't implicate you in Clare's attempted murder to secure a plea deal for himself?"
Amber collapsed onto a barstool, her hands trembling violently. "It was his idea! He told me she was going to ruin him! He said if she died, the trust money would fix everything!"
"If you want to survive this, Miss Hayes," Arthur said, laying a formal affidavit on the kitchen counter alongside a sleek black fountain pen, "you are going to sign a full, unedited confession detailing your involvement in the assault, Evan's plan to defraud the trust, and his deliberate decision to delay calling 911 for four minutes while his wife bled on the floor."
Amber looked at the document. "And if I sign?"
"Then the District Attorney may consider dropping the attempted murder charge down to accomplice to felony assault," Arthur replied coldly. "If you refuse, I will personally ensure you are tried as a primary principal in an attempted capital murder case."
Amber picked up the pen with shaking fingers. Tears of self-pity spilled down her cheeks as she pressed the nib to the paper.
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"He told me he loved me," she sobbed.
"He doesn't love anyone, Miss Hayes," Arthur said, taking the signed document and handing it to the stenographer. "He only loves money. And by Thursday morning, he won't have a single cent left."
