Chapter 13 - Blood in Grand CentralFor one second, I was back on my porch watching Chloe smirk.
The next, I was pressing my hands against her shoulder while she gasped like every breath had sharp edges.
“Stay with me,” I said.
Her sunglasses had fallen off. Without them, she looked younger. Not innocent. Never innocent. But human.
“Don’t let him take the bag,” she whispered.
Mr. Harrison kicked the tote toward me while agents moved around us. People screamed, crouched, ran, filmed, cried. Grand Central became chaos under its painted ceiling.
Another shot cracked in the distance.
Then another.
An agent shouted, “Shooter moving east!”
Chloe gripped my wrist with surprising strength.
“Clara.”
“I’m here.”
“I hated you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“No. I hated that you were real.”
I didn’t understand, and this was not the time to try.
Paramedics arrived within minutes, though it felt longer. They cut open Chloe’s sleeve, packed the wound, lifted her onto a stretcher. As they rolled her away, she turned her head toward me.
“Ask Julian about the blue account.”
Then she passed out.
The blue account.
I stood there with her blood on my hands and realized my husband’s mistress might have just saved my life.
Mr. Harrison took the tote. “We need to move.”
Federal agents escorted us through a service exit. Cameras flashed outside. Someone shouted my name. Not Mrs. Whitaker. Not yet Mrs. Vance.
“Clara! Is it true you inherited Vance Tower?”
“Clara, was that shooting connected to your aunt?”
“Clara, did your husband commit fraud?”
The story had broken.
Of course it had.
A betrayed wife. A mistress shot in Grand Central. A Manhattan skyscraper. A dead heiress. Divorce papers on a porch.
Facebook would devour it by dinner.
But I was not thinking about headlines.
I was thinking about Maya and Liam.
Back at Vance Tower, Ruth met us in the private elevator with Liam in her arms and Maya beside her. Maya saw the blood on my coat and went silent.
“It isn’t mine,” I said quickly.
She nodded, but she did not relax.
Children hear the words you say and believe the fear you carry.
I changed clothes before seeing Julian.
He was being kept in a guarded conference room because Mr. Harrison believed he was too valuable to release and too untrustworthy to allow upstairs.
When I entered, he stood.
“What happened?”
“Chloe was shot.”
The blood left his face.
“Is she alive?”
“For now.”
He sat down hard.
I watched him carefully.
There was grief there.
Messy. Selfish. Real.
“Who shot her?” he asked.
“Daniel Mercer’s brother.”
Julian shook his head. “No. Daniel doesn’t have a brother.”
Mr. Harrison placed Chloe’s flash drive on the table. “Apparently Barron has more than one man with the same face.”
Julian stared at it.
Then I said, “What is the blue account?”
His reaction told me everything.
His eyes widened.
His mouth parted.
Then he looked at Mr. Harrison like a cornered animal looking for a door.
I sat across from him.
“Answer carefully.”
Julian swallowed. “It was an emergency fund.”
“For what?”
“For us.”
I waited.
He broke.
“For me.”
“How much?”
“Eight million.”
The number hit the room like a thrown brick.
Mr. Harrison’s pen stopped moving.
I leaned forward. “You hid eight million dollars while I worked nights to pay our bills?”
Julian’s voice cracked. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
“I couldn’t touch it without triggering reporting requirements.”
“Where did it come from?”
He closed his eyes.
“Referral fees.”
Mr. Harrison’s voice went cold. “From Barron Hale?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Total?”
Julian whispered, “Eight million.”
I thought of my mother’s bracelet. The one I sold to cover his first office rent.
I thought of clipping coupons.
I thought of telling Maya we couldn’t afford art camp while Julian had eight million dollars hidden somewhere blue.
“Why blue?” I asked.
He looked at the table. “Blue Harbor Trust.”
Mr. Harrison stood so quickly his chair scraped backward.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“Blue Harbor Trust was one of the entities Eleanor flagged before she died.”
Julian shook his head. “I didn’t know.”
“You never know,” I said.
He looked up, desperate. “Clara, I swear, I didn’t know about laundering or murder or any of this.”
“No. You just knew about cheating, fraud, coercion, and stealing from your family.”
He recoiled.
Good.
Truth should leave bruises.
Mr. Harrison’s phone buzzed. He read the message and went pale.
“What?” I asked.
“Chloe is out of surgery.”
“And?”
“She’s asking for you.”
Julian stood. “I’m going.”
“No,” Mr. Harrison and I said together.
Julian looked at me with naked hatred.
“She wants me.”
“No,” I said. “For once, Julian, she wants the woman you underestimated.”
At the hospital, Chloe lay surrounded by monitors, her face white against the pillow. A federal agent stood outside her room.
When she saw me, she smiled weakly.
“Still alive.”
“Apparently.”
She coughed, winced, then whispered, “There’s one more thing.”
I leaned closer.
She looked terrified.
“Barron didn’t just kill Eleanor for the tower.”
“Then why?”
May you like
Chloe’s eyes filled.
“Because Eleanor found his daughter.”
