They didn’t know Adrian had personally invited me into their home, their dinners, their private conversations, and their guarded confidence.
And they absolutely didn’t know I had recordings of Mrs. Vale laughing about “moving dead money through charity accounts.”
At noon, Adrian called.
I answered on speakerphone.
“Clara,” he said softly, “my mother crossed a line.”
“Did she?”
“You know how she is.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Criminally careless.”
Silence.
Then: “What does that mean?”
I leaned back in my chair. “It means you should stop talking.”
His breathing sharpened. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, Adrian. I loved you. That was my weakness. Threats are for amateurs.”
He ended the call immediately.
Good.
Fear makes arrogant people careless.
Two days later, Mrs. Vale invited me to the penthouse.
June begged me not to go.
I wore black.
The penthouse glittered high above the city, all marble, glass, and stolen wealth. Mrs. Vale sat beneath a chandelier large enough to feed an entire village for a year.
