Chapter 13 - The Ghost in the Ledger
Ethan stormed out of Bedford Hills Correctional Facility as the sky broke open into a torrential autumn downpour. His vision swam with crimson fury and dizzying nausea. Eleanor’s final, mocking words reverberated in his skull like artillery fire.
*She’s your half-sister.*
He ripped open the door of his vintage black Aston Martin, slammed it shut against the driving rain, and hit the steering wheel with the heel of his palm until the horn wailed into the storm. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. Eleanor Vance was a psychological butcher; she would sever her own son's spinal cord with a scalpel of words if it meant dragging him back into her miserable pit of darkness.
His phone buzzed violently on the leather console. It was Richard, Ethan’s trusted ally and the former Vance family archivist who was currently running the sanctuary's administrative transition.
Ethan wiped rain from his face and picked up the call on speaker. "Richard. Tell me you have something."
"Ethan, you need to come to the city office immediately," Richard said, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. "I was running the digital audit on the private trust accounts Marcus set up before his alleged death in 2012, just like you asked me to before you left for the prison."
"And?" Ethan growled, revving the engine into a roar and pulling out of the prison parking lot.
"Eleanor was lying about some things, Ethan, but she wasn't lying about the accounts. There’s an active routing node. A shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands under the name *Ouroboros Holdings*."
Ethan braked hard at a red light, windshield wipers slapping frantically against the downpour. "What about it?"
"It made three distinct wire transfers over the last forty-eight hours," Richard whispered, his voice trembling. "Two million dollars each. The recipient account is registered right here in New York. The signature on the authorization documents was executed with a biometric private key."
"Whose private key, Richard?"
A long, suffocating silence hung on the line, punctuated only by the drumming of rain on the car roof.
"The late Marcus Vance, Ethan. The system verified his retinal scan twenty minutes ago at an automated private vault on Wall Street."
Ethan’s blood turned to liquid nitrogen. If his father was alive, then the tragedy that had destroyed Claire’s childhood, the murder of her mother, and the entire catastrophic chain of events leading up to their wedding had not been an isolated crime of jealousy. It was an ongoing, calculated execution.
"Where is Claire right now?" Ethan asked, terror finally piercing his composure.
"She’s at the estate," Richard replied. "She said she was going down into the old wine cellar to find the original inventory logs for Sarah's vintage collection."
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"Get the sanctuary security to lock down the perimeter!" Ethan roared, slamming his foot on the accelerator, tires smoking on the wet asphalt. "She's not alone in that house!"
***
