Chapter 17 - The Rat Trap
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Preston did exactly what desperate, cornered men do.
He panicked and called Julian. Julian called Phoebe. Phoebe, terrified and broke, called Carter and Jackson, begging for their muscle.
The five of them had absolutely no money, no corporate leverage, and no idea that they were being watched by some of the most expensive surveillance experts on the West Coast. They arranged a meeting at a cheap, decaying motel right off the highway outside San Bernardino. It was the kind of place with flickering neon signs, cracked pavement, and curtains permanently stained yellow by cigarette smoke.
Our investigators had rented the adjacent room and drilled microscopic microphones through the drywall.
Sitting in my office, I listened to the live audio feed as the conspirators unraveled.
Phoebe broke down first, her voice shrill and hysterical. “I can’t live like this anymore! My mother is in jail, I’m sleeping in my car, and Blair took everything from us!”
Julian sounded like he was heavily intoxicated, slurring his words. “She called in the loans. My father is liquidating the lake house and the yachts to stave off bankruptcy. We’re finished. My family name is dead.”
Preston’s cold, calculated voice cut through their whining. “We aren't finished. Not if she signs the majority voting shares into a blind trust controlled by me.”
“She won’t do it, Preston,” Carter argued, his voice heavy with defeat. “You didn't see her face that morning. She’s changed. She’s not afraid of us anymore.”
“She will be if she’s scared enough,” Preston countered darkly.
Jackson cursed loudly, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor echoing through the feed. “You told us no one would actually get hurt last time!”
Last time.
The words hung in the air. Preston went dead quiet.
Then Julian laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. “Don't act like a boy scout now, Jackson. Your father handled the mechanic work on the car, and my father paid him. Nobody proved a damn thing.”
My blood went instantly cold. The Hale brothers' father was the mechanic. They had all been in on it. Every single person who was supposed to love Blair had helped dig her parents' graves.
Arthur reached over and paused the recording. For a long, suffocating moment, neither of us moved.
Then, Arthur pressed play.
Preston’s voice returned, dropping to a sinister, hushed tone. “Blair doesn’t need to die. She just needs to disappear long enough for us to control the narrative in the press. A total mental breakdown. Forced rehab. A legal conservatorship. Julian, do you still have those blank medical evaluation forms from when you were her emergency contact?”
“Yeah. Signed by a doctor on my payroll.”
“Good. We go in and take her from the Montecito estate during the massive storm predicted for tomorrow night. We force her to sign the share transfers and the conservatorship papers. By the time the media asks any questions, the board will be back under my control, and she’ll be locked in a private facility.”
Phoebe sniffled. “And what about me?”
“Once we have the money,” Julian promised smoothly, “you’ll have everything you ever wanted.”
I almost laughed out loud. After everything they had lost, after having their entire criminal enterprise exposed to the light, all Phoebe cared about were designer handbags and empty promises.
Arthur turned off the audio receiver. He looked at me, his face impassive but his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity.
“What are your orders, Miss Whitmore?”
May you like
I looked out the window at the San Diego skyline. I thought of my parents burning in that wreckage. I thought of the original Blair, locked in a dark basement, crying until her heart gave out.
“Let them come,” I said softly. “And this time, make sure every single camera in the house is rolling.”
