Chapter 7
Arthur Pritchard was seventy-two years old.
Retired insurance adjuster.
Currently working as a “consultant” for the same company that held the twins’ policies.
He lived in a penthouse in the nicest building downtown.
The kind with a doorman.
Security cameras.
Private elevator.
Ryan had called him “Uncle Arthur” in the emails.
They’d been working together for fifteen years.
Arthur had helped him fake three previous insurance claims.
A fire at his first business.
A “stolen” company car.
A fake injury that had netted him two hundred thousand dollars.
They were old friends.
Partners in crime.
And Arthur was the one who’d suggested the kids.
“Children are the most profitable,” he’d written in one email I’d found. “Nobody ever suspects a grieving father. And the payout is tax-free.”
I’d read that line a hundred times.
Each time, it made me angrier than the last.
He’d seen my children as nothing more than dollar signs.
A walking, talking, laughing investment opportunity.
I parked across the street from his building.
Watched the front entrance.
It was 11 p.m.
The doorman stood at attention.
Security camera above his head.
I couldn’t just walk in.
Not yet.
I needed to know his routine.
His weaknesses.
His secrets.
I’d spent the day digging into him.
Arthur Pritchard had a second life.
One his wife of forty-five years knew nothing about.
He had a girlfriend.
Twenty-four years old.
A dancer at a club across town.
He visited her every Tuesday and Thursday night.
Stayed until 2 a.m.
Tonight was Thursday.
Right on schedule, at 11:17, the private elevator opened.
Arthur walked out.
Expensive suit.
Hair perfectly combed.
Carrying a small gift bag.
Probably jewelry for the girlfriend.
He got into his Mercedes.
Pulled out of the garage.
I followed him.
Three cars back.
He drove to the club.
Parked in the back.
Went in through the employee entrance.
I parked a block away.
Waited.
And I thought.
Killing Arthur would be easy.
A quick accident.
A heart attack that couldn’t be traced.
The world would be better off without him.
But that wasn’t enough.
Not for a man who’d made a career out of profiting from death.
I wanted his life destroyed.
Every part of it.
His reputation.
His marriage.
His money.
His freedom.
I wanted him to lose everything.
At 1:58 a.m., he came back out.
Alone.
Looking pleased with himself.
Zipping up his pants as he walked to his car.
Disgusting.
I followed him home.
He pulled into his building’s garage.
I parked across the street again.
And I got to work.
First, I sent an email.
To his wife.
From a throwaway account.
Attached were photos.
Hundreds of them.
Arthur with his girlfriend.
At restaurants.
At hotels.
Going into the club.
Coming out.
Text messages between them.
Expensive gifts he’d bought her with his wife’s money.
The email was short.
Dear Mrs. Pritchard.
I thought you should know what your husband has been doing for the last three years. The woman’s name is Crystal. She works at the club on 5th. The apartment he rents for her is at 212 Maple, unit 4B. He’s spent over three hundred thousand dollars on her since they met.
You’re welcome.
— A Friend
I hit send.
Then I sent a second email.
To the board of directors of the insurance company.
Attached were all the emails between Arthur and Ryan.
Proof of fifteen years of fraud.
Millions of dollars stolen.
Including the policies on my children.
The email was even shorter.
Arthur Pritchard has been running a fraud ring out of your company for fifteen years. The police have already been notified. I’d suggest you lawyer up.
— Anonymous
Hit send.
Third email.
To the state insurance board.
Same attachments.
Formal request for investigation.
Fourth email.
To every news outlet in the state.
Subject: Insurance kingpin helped local millionaire murder his own children.
Attached: Everything.
I sat back in my seat.
Watched the lights come on one by one in Arthur’s penthouse.
Good.
His wife had read the email.
I could hear screaming even through the closed windows and across the street.
Lamps breaking.
Things being thrown.
Perfect.
Ten minutes later, Arthur ran out of the building.
Shirt half-buttoned.
Face scratched.
Suitcase in his hand.
His wife was right behind him.
Throwing his things after him.
“YOU BASTARD!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Forty-five years! Forty-five years I gave you! And you throw it all away on a stripper? Don’t you ever come back! Don’t you ever call me again! I want a divorce! And I’m taking EVERYTHING!”
She threw his wedding ring after him.
It hit him in the back of the head.
He didn’t stop.
Just kept running to his car.
Peeled out of the driveway.
I followed him again.
He drove to Crystal’s apartment.
Of course he did.
Where else would he go?
His wife had kicked him out.
His life was falling apart.
He needed comfort.
He parked.
Ran up the stairs.
I waited five minutes.
Then I called the police.
Anonymous tip.
“There’s a man at 212 Maple, unit 4B. Arthur Pritchard. He’s wanted for insurance fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, and a dozen other charges. He’s there right now. And he’s armed. You might want to hurry.”
I hung up.
And I waited.
Four police cars showed up seven minutes later.
Lights off.
Silent.
They surrounded the building.
Two went up the stairs.
I heard the door get kicked in.
Heard shouting.
Heard Arthur scream, “What is this? I haven’t done anything!”
“Arthur Pritchard?” an officer said. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”
They led him out five minutes later.
In handcuffs.
Barefoot.
Pajama pants.
No shirt.
Crystal was right behind him.
Also in cuffs.
Screaming that she didn’t know anything.
That she was just a dancer.
That she’d been framed.
They put them in separate cars.
Drove away.
I sat there for a long time.
Watching the empty building.
It was done.
All of them.
Ryan.
Brooke.
Jesse.
Arthur.
Everyone who’d had a hand in my children’s deaths.
Everyone who’d profited.
Everyone who’d looked the other way.
All in jail.
All destroyed.
I should have felt peace.
Should have felt closure.
But I didn’t.
I felt empty.
Hollow.
Revenge was supposed to fix it.
Supposed to make the pain go away.
But Ava and Ethan were still gone.
Nothing was bringing them back.
No amount of suffering on their killers’ parts would ever change that.
I started the car.
Drove home.
The big, empty house.
Full of memories.
Full of ghosts.
I walked inside.
Turned on all the lights.
Went to the playroom.
Their toys were still there.
Ava’s dollhouse.
Ethan’s race cars.
The art they’d made me.
I sat down in the middle of the floor.
And I cried.
For the first time since the funeral.
Real, gut-wrenching sobs.
I let myself feel it.
All of it.
The grief.
The rage.
The unbearable, endless missing of them.
I cried until I had no tears left.
Until my throat was raw.
Until I couldn’t breathe.
And then I felt it.
Something small.
Almost imperceptible.
A hand on my shoulder.
Warm.
Light.
And a sound.
Like children laughing.
Faint.
Far away.
But real.
I looked up.
No one was there.
But I knew.
They’d seen.
They knew.
And they were finally at peace.
I stood up.
Wiped my face.
Walked through the house.
Turned off all the lights.
Locked all the doors.
Went to my room.
And for the first time in three months, I slept.
Dreamlessly.
Peacefully.
The war was over.
May you like
I’d won.
Now I just had to figure out what came next.
