Chapter 8
The next two weeks were a blur.
Headlines every day.
WHITMORE EMPIRE CRUMBLES.
MECHANIC UNCOVERS BILLION-DOLLAR FRAUD.
WIDOW TESTIFIES AGAINST MURDEROUS TYCOON.
Jake’s shop was swarmed with reporters.
People brought their cars in just to meet him.
He was a celebrity.
But he hated every second of it.
“I just want to fix cars,” he’d say, hiding in his office.
The company held an emergency board meeting two weeks after Richard’s arrest.
Jake had to go.
I went with him.
Vanessa came too.
For moral support.
The boardroom was on the top floor of the tallest building in Chicago.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the lake.
A long mahogany table.
Ten old men in expensive suits sitting around it.
They looked at Jake like he was trash.
Like he didn’t belong.
Jake didn’t care.
He sat down at the head of the table.
Opened his folder.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s get down to business.”
The meeting lasted four hours.
They argued.
They yelled.
They tried to tell him he didn’t know how to run a company.
Jake just sat there and listened.
When they were done, he stood up.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “First, every penny of the thirty-two million Ethan stole goes back into the pension fund. Today. Second, Richard’s shares get sold. The money goes to a fund for the families of the workers he hurt. Third, I’m keeping my forty-eight percent. But I’m not running this company. I’m appointing a new CEO. Someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who cares about the workers, not just the stock price. And fourth—any of you who knew what Richard was doing and didn’t say anything? You’re fired. Effective immediately. Security will walk you out.”
The room erupted.
“You can’t do that!” one of them yelled.
“I own forty-eight percent,” Jake said. “And with Ethan’s ten percent voting with me? That’s fifty-eight. I can do whatever I want. Now, does anyone else have a problem?”
No one said a word.
“Good,” Jake said. “Meeting adjourned.”
We walked out of the building an hour later.
The sun was shining.
Vanessa whooped.
“Damn, Jake,” she said. “That was hot. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Jake laughed.
It was the first real laugh I’d heard from him in weeks.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
But our problems weren’t over yet.
That night, we got a call from the police.
Richard had made bail.
He’d hired the best lawyer in the state.
And he was out.
And he’d told his lawyer he was going to “take care of the Bennett problem” once and for all.
We went to bed that night with the doors locked.
The alarm set.
Jake kept a baseball bat next to the bed.
I didn’t sleep a wink.
At three a.m., the alarm went off.
Loud.
Shrill.
Jake jumped out of bed.
Grabbed the bat.
“Stay here,” he said.
He ran down the stairs.
I grabbed my phone.
Called 911.
I heard glass break downstairs.
Then a yell.
Then a gunshot.
I screamed.
Ran down the stairs.
The front door was wide open.
Glass from the window all over the floor.
Jake was on the ground.
Holding his shoulder.
Blood running through his fingers.
And standing over him was Richard Whitmore.
Gun in his hand.
Face red with rage.
“You ruined everything,” he screamed at Jake. “Everything I built! Everything I worked for! I should’ve killed you when you were a kid. Just like I killed your dad.”
He lifted the gun.
May you like
Pointed it at Jake’s head.
“Goodbye, Mr. Bennett,” he said.
