Chapter 4 - The Shadows Close In
Within forty-eight hours, the walls completely closed in. The media had caught wind of the scandal. Headlines splashed across every major news network: Mogul Rebecca Moore Dies Under Suspicious Circumstances; Husband Investigated for Foul Play.
Mark couldn't leave the house without being bombarded by reporters and flashing cameras. The Holden-Moore hotel stock was plummeting, but Mark didn't own enough shares autonomously to sell them off. He was trapped in a golden cage, starving.
"We need cash, and we need it now," Claire whispered fiercely to Mark in the master bedroom. She had packed a suitcase. "I’m not going to jail for you, Mark. If you don’t find a way to get us out of the country, I am going to the DA and turning state's evidence against your mother."
"You wouldn't dare," Mark snarled, grabbing her wrist.
"Try me," she spat back. "I loved the money, Mark. I didn't love the idea of rotting in a women's correctional facility."
Before Mark could respond, his phone buzzed. It was an restricted number. He answered it out of sheer desperation.
"Mark Holden," a calm, digitized voice spoke on the other end. "If you want to survive the week, listen carefully. Rebecca didn't act alone. Arthur Vance is playing you. There is a hidden safe in the basement cellar, behind the vintage 1945 Bordeaux. Inside is $5 million in cash and a pair of clean passports. Take it and run."
"Who is this?" Mark demanded.
"A friend who hates seeing Arthur Vance win," the voice replied before clicking off.
Mark didn't care if it was a trap; he had no other choices. He grabbed Claire and ran down to the mansion’s sprawling wine cellar. Agnes hobbled behind them, complaining about her arthritis.
They found the vintage 1945 Bordeaux. Mark shoved the bottles aside, smashing several on the stone floor. Sure enough, a small electronic keypad safe was embedded in the brick wall.
"What's the code?" Claire breathed, her eyes wide with greed.
"Try her birthday," Agnes suggested.
Mark entered the numbers. Incorrect. He tried their anniversary. Incorrect.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door of the wine cellar slammed shut behind them with a resounding THUD. The electronic lock clicked into place.
The small monitor on the safe flickered on, showing a live video feed from the hospital. But it wasn't the morgue. It was a private, high-security recovery suite.
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On the bed sat a woman, pale but breathing, holding two beautiful newborn babies.
It was Rebecca.
