Chapter 10 - The Postscript
I stared at the heavy iron key in my hand.
The bakery was bustling with the morning rush, but the sound faded into a dull roar.
Why would Marcus Thorne, a man currently sitting in federal prison thanks to my evidence, send me a key?
I walked into the back office and locked the door.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number on the law firm's letterhead.
"Vanguard & Associates," a polished voice answered.
"This is Caroline Miller. I just received a certified package from your office regarding Marcus Thorne."
"Ah, yes, Ms. Miller. Hold please."
A moment later, a deeper voice came on the line. "Ms. Miller. I'm Attorney Vance. I trust you received the key?"
"I did. What does it open?"
"A private lockbox at the First National Bank in downtown Chicago," Vance said smoothly. "Mr. Thorne instructed me to release it to you only after his sentencing was finalized."
"Why would he give me anything?" I demanded. "I'm the reason he's in prison."
Vance let out a dry chuckle. "Mr. Thorne is a pragmatic man. He knows your father outsmarted him. But Marcus also wanted you to know that your family’s lies go much deeper than Ryan's gambling debts."
A chill ran down my spine.
"What do you mean?"
"The lockbox contains documents Marcus acquired over the last decade to ensure your brother's compliance. They relate to your ex-husband, Ms. Miller."
I stopped breathing.
My ex-husband, Greg.
We had divorced eight years ago after I caught him cheating. It was messy, painful, and he had walked away with half my savings, leaving me struggling to keep the bakery afloat. My mother had always blamed me for the divorce, claiming I "worked too much."
"What does Marcus have to do with Greg?" I whispered.
"I suggest you visit the bank, Ms. Miller," Vance said. "Have a good day."
He hung up.
I sat at my desk, staring at the iron key.
I thought the nightmare was over. I thought the cancer in my family had been completely excised. But Marcus Thorne was a spider, and apparently, his web had touched parts of my life I thought were just my own personal failures.
"Denise," I said, opening the office door.
She looked up from the prep table.
"I need to run to the city," I said, grabbing my coat. "Can you hold the fort down?"
"Of course," Denise said, though she looked concerned. "Everything okay?"
"I don't know yet."
The drive to Chicago felt like a blur. The First National Bank was an imposing stone building. I presented the key and my ID to the vault manager.
He led me into the sterile, quiet vault room and inserted his master key alongside mine.
The metal box slid out smoothly.
He left me alone in a private viewing room.
I opened the lid.
Inside was a thick manila folder. The name GREGORY MILLER was printed in bold black ink across the tab.
I opened it.
Inside were bank transfers. Wire receipts. And emails.
I started reading, my stomach plummeting with every line.
Greg hadn't just cheated on me.
May you like
He had been paid to leave.
And the person making the payments from a shell account was Ryan.
