Chapter 11 - The Evidence
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Retrieving the briefcase meant walking directly into the lion's den.
Julian’s corporate office was located on the forty-second floor of a highly secure skyscraper in downtown Chicago. We couldn't just walk in, and my father’s dockworkers couldn't exactly blend into a corporate environment.
But I could. I still had my spouse access badge.
"It's too dangerous, Evelyn," my father argued, pacing the safehouse floor. "If Julian catches you in his office, he won't hesitate to hurt you again. I am not letting you go in there."
"He won't catch me," I insisted, zipping up a sleek, professional trench coat. "Julian has a mandatory executive board meeting every Tuesday at 10:00 AM. It lasts exactly two hours, and he leaves his briefcase locked in his private office during the presentation. I know his schedule better than he does."
My father stared at me, seeing the absolute determination in my eyes. I was no longer the battered wife cowering on the kitchen floor. I was a mother fighting for her son's freedom.
"You have exactly fifteen minutes," my father relented, handing me a small, encrypted thumb drive and a specialized lock-picking tool. "Sully will be waiting in a running car at the freight elevator exit. Do not engage with Julian. Get the files and get out."
At 10:15 AM, I swiped my spouse badge at the security turnstile. The light flashed green. My heart hammered against my ribs as I rode the glass elevator up to the forty-second floor.
The executive suite was remarkably quiet, the assistants busy answering phones. I kept my head down, walking briskly toward Julian’s corner office. His door was locked, but the specialized tool my father provided popped the simple tumbler in seconds.
I slipped inside, locking the door behind me.
The office smelled of his expensive cologne. My stomach churned, but I forced the panic down. I went straight to the closet. Hidden beneath his spare suit jackets sat a heavy, black leather briefcase.
It was locked with a three-digit combination.
I didn't panic. I remembered what I told my father: Julian never used emotional dates. He used transactional ones.
I spun the dials to the date he received his first major promotion. 0-8-1.
The latch clicked open.
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Inside sat a pristine stack of printed ledgers, offshore bank routing numbers, and a separate folder labeled Custody Strategy. I grabbed everything, shoving the documents into my tote bag, and locked the empty briefcase.
I was about to leave when the heavy oak door of the office rattled violently. Someone was trying to get in.
