Chapter 4
Richard Whitmore showed up at our house at nine that night.
He didn’t knock.
He just walked through the front door like he owned the place.
Jake and I were watching TV.
We both stood up.
Richard was in a tailored suit.
Cigar in one hand.
A leather folder under the other arm.
He looked calm.
Too calm.
“Jake,” he said, nodding like they were old friends. “Sarah. Lovely home you have here. Cozy.”
“Get out,” Jake said.
Richard smiled.
“Not yet,” he said. “I think we need to talk. Man to man. About what happens next.”
He sat down on our couch.
Like he was invited.
Put the folder on our coffee table.
“I’m a reasonable man,” he said. “I don’t want to fight. This thing with the thirty-two million? It can all go away. I’ll write you a check for fifty million tonight. No questions asked. You sell your forty-eight percent back to me. You sign a non-disclosure agreement saying you’ll never talk about my family, my company, or your father ever again. And we all go our separate ways.”
He leaned back.
“Fifty million,” he said again. “Enough to buy this whole neighborhood. Enough to never work another day in your life. What do you say?”
Jake stared at him.
“You think this is about money?” he said.
Richard blinked.
“Isn’t everything?” he said.
Jake sat down across from him.
“My dad died when I was sixteen,” he said. “He had a heart attack in the middle of the night. The coroner said it was from stress. From being called a thief. From losing the company he’d spent twenty years building. From losing his house. His car. Every friend he ever had because you told everyone he’d embezzled five million dollars.”
He leaned forward.
“Three weeks ago, I had his body exhumed,” he said.
Richard’s smile faded.
Just a little.
“The new coroner’s report says his blood had three times the lethal dose of a heart medication in it,” Jake said. “The same medication you’ve been taking for ten years. The same medication only three doctors in the state of Illinois prescribe. And one of those doctors? He’s your cousin. He’s been on your payroll since 1998.”
The room went cold.
Richard said nothing.
“I don’t want your fifty million,” Jake said. “I want you to admit you killed my dad. I want you to stand in front of the board and tell everyone he was innocent. And I want you to go to prison for the rest of your life. That’s the only deal I’ll take.”
Richard stared at him for a long time.
Then he laughed.
It was a cold, ugly sound.
“You’re a fool, Jake,” he said. “A stupid, idealistic fool. You think anyone’s going to believe you? A mechanic with a grudge against a man who’s donated twenty million dollars to Chicago hospitals? Who sits on the board of the art institute? Who’s friends with the governor, the mayor, and half the police department?”
He stood up.
Picked up his folder.
“Let me tell you how this is going to go,” he said. “If you go to the police with this made-up story about murder? I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow morning. I’ll tell everyone you’re a bitter, unstable man who’s been harassing my family for years because your father was a thief. I’ll leak fake emails that say Sarah knew about the thirty-two million and helped you blackmail Ethan. I’ll tell everyone she married you for money, just like you’ll say Vanessa married Ethan. I’ll ruin her name. She’ll lose her job. She’ll never be able to show her face in this city again. And your little shop? It’ll burn to the ground by the end of the week. And no one will ever be able to prove I had anything to do with it.”
He walked to the door.
Turned back.
“You have until Monday morning,” he said. “Take the fifty million. Or I destroy everything you love. Your choice.”
He walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I was shaking.
Jake came over to me.
Wrapped his arms around me.
“He can’t do that,” I whispered.
“He can,” Jake said. “He’s Richard Whitmore. He can do anything he wants.”
“Then let’s take the money,” I said, pulling back to look at him. “Let’s sell the stock. Move to California. Change our names. We don’t need the truth, Jake. We just need each other.”
Jake shook his head.
His eyes were sad.
“If I let him get away with it,” he said, “then my dad really did die for nothing. And every person he ever hurt—my mom, those retired workers, all the people he stepped on to get where he is—they’ll never get justice. I can’t live with that, Sarah. I’m sorry.”
I stared at him.
I thought of my job at the school.
Of the kids I taught.
Of our little house.
Of the shop.
Of the life we’d built.
And I knew.
He was right.
I didn’t want to be scared.
I didn’t want to run.
“Okay,” I said.
Jake blinked.
“Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “We fight. But we do it together. No more secrets. No more hiding things from each other. Whatever happens, we face it side by side.”
Jake kissed me.
Hard.
Desperate.
“Together,” he said.
But that night, I lay awake long after he fell asleep.
I thought of Richard’s cold eyes.
Of his threat.
Of how easy it would be for him to make good on every word.
And I knew.
May you like
We were in way over our heads.
And there was no turning back.
