Chapter 5 - THE MISTRESS WITH THE TEA CUP
The keys slipped from my fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a sharp clatter.
I stared at Chloe Vance. The woman who, two hours ago, had walked into my dining room with a bottle of champagne and my grandmother’s diamond bracelet. Now, she was sitting in my secret apartment, looking terrifyingly calm.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded, keeping my hand near the heavy brass doorknob, ready to run or call the police.
Chloe took a slow sip of her tea. She looked exhausted. Her immaculate makeup was slightly smudged, and the arrogant flair of the real estate agent was entirely gone.
“David is an idiot, Margaret,” Chloe said quietly. “He used my real estate credentials to run a background check on you last month. He found the lease for this apartment. He thought you were renting it for a sick relative. I made a copy of the key from his desk.”
“Get out,” I said firmly, pulling my phone from my purse. “I’ve already dealt with one trespasser tonight. I will call the police.”
“Call them,” Chloe sighed, setting the teacup on the coffee table. “I don't care. But before you do, you need to know why I’m here. I didn't come to fight you. I came to warn you.”
I paused, my thumb hovering over the keypad. “Warn me about what? David is in a holding cell.”
“David isn't the threat,” Chloe said, looking up at me with genuine fear in her eyes. “The money in that suitcase is the threat. Did the police find it?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “They seized it. Over a million dollars in cash and a gun.”
Chloe closed her eyes, a shudder running through her shoulders. “Thank God. But Margaret, that money doesn't belong to David. He didn't just steal from your pension and his mother’s house. He stole from the Chicago syndicate.”
My blood ran completely cold.
“What are you talking about?” I whispered, stepping further into the room and closing the door.
“David’s contracting business hasn't built a legitimate house in four years,” Chloe explained, her voice trembling. “He’s been taking construction loans from a shadow bank tied to the local mob. He used the money to pay off his debts, but he couldn't pay them back. Two weeks ago, they told him they were going to start breaking legs if he didn't deliver a million in cash by midnight tonight.”
I sank into the armchair across from her. The pieces were finally locking into place. The desperation. The forged pension documents. The rushed sale of Lorraine’s house. He was scrambling to save his own life.
“That’s why he packed the suitcase,” I realized. “He was going to pay them tonight.”
“No,” Chloe corrected softly. “He packed the suitcase because he was going to run. The Florida condo wasn't for us to live in, Margaret. It was a flip property to launder the cash. He was going to take the suitcase, fly to Costa Rica, and leave me holding the fraudulent mortgage and you holding the empty pension.”
A wave of nausea hit me. “He was leaving us both.”
Chloe nodded, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I found the plane tickets in his jacket pocket this morning. One ticket. For him. That’s why I showed up at the dinner tonight. I wanted to confront him in front of everyone. I wanted to burn his life down.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Two women, completely different, united by the profound betrayal of a man we thought we knew.
“The child’s drawing,” I said suddenly, remembering the piece of cardstock the evidence technician had found. “The boy in the picture. Is he yours?”
Chloe’s head snapped up. “What drawing?”
“A crayon drawing of a boy and a man in a Cubs hat. It was in the suitcase with the gun.”
Chloe looked absolutely bewildered. “Margaret, I don't have any children. I can't have children.”
The room seemed to spin.
Answer one: The money in the suitcase was mob debt David was trying to steal for a getaway.
Open two: If the child isn't Chloe’s, whose child is it? And why was the drawing packed with a gun and the getaway money?
“He has another woman,” Chloe whispered, the realization hitting her just as hard as it hit me. “He was playing all three of us.”
Before I could respond, my cell phone buzzed violently in my hand.
It was Emily.
I answered it immediately. “Emily? Is everything okay?”
“Mom,” Emily sobbed, her voice echoing in panic. “Mom, you have to come back to the house. Right now.”
“What’s wrong? Are the police still there?”
“The police left ten minutes ago with Dad,” Emily cried. “But someone else just showed up. Two men. They broke the front door down. They’re tearing the house apart looking for the suitcase. Mom, Grandma tried to stop them, and they hurt her.”
“Get out of the house, Emily!” I screamed, sprinting toward the door. “Run out the back!”
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“I can't!” Emily whispered, her voice dropping to a terrified hush. “I’m hiding in your sewing room. They’re in the hallway. Mom, one of them has a gun.”
TITLE: The Blood In The Sewing Room
