Chapter 5 - The Glass Tower
The private office on the forty-second floor of the Palmetto Tower overlooked the entire Charleston harbor.
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the sky was a deep, bruised shade of purple, heavy with the threat of an impending coastal storm. Container ships, stacked high with red, blue, and yellow steel boxes, sat motionless at anchor in the grey waters of the bay, waiting for dock clearances that were no longer coming.
I sat in a high-backed leather armchair, my left leg elevated on a velvet ottoman, a cup of hot Earl Grey tea resting on the small glass table beside me.
Standing near the window, holding a slender silver iPad, was Phoebe.
She was thirty-eight years old, dressed in a sharp, immaculately tailored black pantsuit, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight, severe bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like a high-yield corporate attorney because she was one—specifically, the senior managing director of asset recovery for Croft, Sterling & Van Zandt’s North American division.
"Arthur Vance is currently in the Intensive Care Unit at St. Jude Memorial," Phoebe said, her voice completely even as she swiped through her screen. "He suffered an acute hypertensive crisis resulting in a mild ischemic stroke. His condition is stabilized, but his speech center is severely impaired."
"And Flynn?" I asked, taking a quiet sip of my tea.
"Flynn is currently sitting in the executive boardroom at Vance Global Logistics," Phoebe replied, turning toward me with a tiny, sharp tilt of her chin. "Or rather, what remains of it. The federal marshals executed their seizure order ninety minutes ago. They have locked the accounting servers, impounded twenty-four corporate vehicles, and served Flynn with a formal subpoena to appear before a federal grand jury on Tuesday morning."
"Did he try to call?"
Phoebe walked over to the desk, picking up a small, black burner phone that sat beside a stack of thick legal files.
"He has called this number forty-seven times since three o'clock," Phoebe said. "He has also left twelve voicemails on your old cell phone server, ranging from hysterical pleas for forgiveness to threats of legal retaliation for spousal abandonment."
"Play the last one," I murmured.
Phoebe tapped the black screen. She pressed the speaker icon, setting the small device on the glass table beside my tea cup.
The speaker crackled with a high-pitched, desperate static before Flynn’s voice filled the quiet room.
"Mabel! Mabel, please! Pick up the damn phone!" Flynn’s voice was ragged, hoarse, and shrill with pure, unadulterated terror. The background sound was deafening—screaming employees, ringing office phones, and the sharp, metallic click of federal agents opening filing cabinets with crowbars. "Mabel, listen to me! There’s been a massive mistake! The IRS... they're saying Arthur moved money through Caymans accounts! I didn't know anything about it, Mabel! I swear to God I didn't know! They're trying to freeze everything! My cards aren't working! The house... the bank sent a notice saying the mortgage on Oakridge Drive is being foreclosed because the corporate guarantee was revoked!"
He let out a ragged, choking sob that sounded like a wounded animal trapped in a drainpipe.
"Mabel... please... my dad had a stroke... he’s in the hospital... my mother is losing her mind... please come back... we can fix this! You built this company, Mabel! You can tell the auditors it was an accounting error! Just tell them it was an error! I love you, Mabel! Please... please call me back..."
The recording ended with a loud, mechanical beep.
Phoebe reached down and cleared the screen with a single swipe. "Should I block the line?"
"No," I said softly, looking out the window toward the dark waters of the harbor where the silent container ships sat floating in the fog. "Leave it open. Let him leave a message every time another piece of his world breaks."
I reached down, taking the small, carved silver pen my grandfather had given me when I graduated from law school, and opened the thick blue folder resting on my lap.
Inside were thirty-two pages of personal asset recovery filings.
With three simple signatures, every piece of property, every art piece, every luxury vehicle, and every square foot of real estate Flynn Vance had acquired over seven years of marriage would be transferred directly into my private trust to satisfy the personal civil damages claim stemming from the assault in the foyer.
I turned to the final signature page.
My hand didn't shake. The titanium plates inside my leg didn't hurt anymore.
I brought the pen down against the smooth white paper, signing my name clearly, firmly, and completely across the black line:
May you like
MABEL CROFT.
Not Vance. Never Vance again.
