Chapter 11 - THE FINAL THREAT
The next afternoon, I stood by the massive glass windows of the downtown restaurant, looking out over the Chicago River.
Julian Vance was exactly as his voice suggested—sharp, professional, and entirely genuine. We had spent the last hour discussing the syndication contract. It was incredibly fair.
"Your mother was a visionary," Julian said, sipping his water. "She knew that the intimacy of local radio was a lost art. People are desperate for connection."
"She believed in the listeners," I agreed. "And so do I. I'll sign the contract, Julian. But Madison stays as my co-host. And we broadcast from Chicago."
Julian smiled, extending his hand. "Deal."
As we shook on it, my cell phone vibrated violently in my purse.
It was the warden’s office at the federal detention center.
I excused myself and stepped into the quiet hallway of the restaurant.
"Elizabeth Whitmore," I answered.
"Mrs. Whitmore, this is Warden Hayes. We have an inmate, Robert Whitmore, requesting an emergency, recorded phone call with you. He says it pertains to the immediate safety of your daughter."
My blood froze. "Put him on."
There was a click, followed by the automated federal warning. Then, Robert's voice came through the line. It sounded hollow, desperate, and vicious.
"Hello, Elizabeth."
"What do you want, Robert?" I hissed. "If you ever threaten Madison again—"
"Shut up and listen," he interrupted, coughing harshly. "Vanessa’s father isn't going down without a fight. The Feds froze his domestic accounts, but he has offshore money. He blames you for Vanessa going to prison."
"They're both locked up," I said, my heart pounding.
"His money isn't," Robert sneered. "He put a hit out on you, Elizabeth. And Madison. He hired someone to tamper with your car. The one you drove to the restaurant today."
Panic surged through my chest. I looked out the restaurant window toward the parking garage where I had left my car.
"Why are you telling me this?" I demanded.
"Because," Robert breathed heavily, "I know the name of the man he hired. I know how to stop it. Tell the DA to drop the federal fraud charges against me. Tell them I was coerced by Vanessa. Get me a plea deal for two years in a minimum-security camp, and I’ll give you the name."
He was leveraging our lives to save himself.
"You’re lying," I said, though my hands were shaking. "You're just desperate."
"Am I?" Robert laughed darkly. "Walk out to your car, Elizabeth. Look at the brake lines. Then decide if you want to play a game with your daughter's life. You have one hour to call the DA."
The line clicked dead.
I stood in the hallway, completely paralyzed.
I immediately called Arthur. He answered on the first ring.
"Arthur, where is Madison?"
"She's right here in my office, Elizabeth. We're going over the new merchandise designs. Why?"
"Do not let her leave the building," I ordered. "Lock the doors."
I sprinted out of the restaurant and ran down the block toward the parking garage. My mind was racing. Was Robert telling the truth? Was this a final, desperate manipulation, or was Vanessa’s cartel-like family actually coming for us?
I found my car on the third floor of the concrete garage.
It was isolated. Quiet.
I knelt on the cold concrete, shining my phone’s flashlight under the front driver-side wheel.
There was a dark puddle of fluid spreading across the ground.
The brake line had been cleanly, deliberately sliced.
Robert wasn't lying. If I had driven on the highway to pick Madison up, we would have crashed.
I stood up, my breath caught in my throat.
But as I turned to run back to the restaurant to call the police, a dark figure stepped out from behind the concrete pillar blocking the exit.
It was the shaved-headed mover from the station. The man Vanessa had hired.
May you like
He was holding a heavy steel wrench.
"Mr. Clarke sends his regards," the man growled, stepping toward me.
