Eleanora ducked her head and slid into the cavernous back seat of the Cadillac SUV.
Devonte collapsed the umbrella in one fluid motion, pulled the heavy door shut, and climbed into the driver's seat. He shifted the car into drive.
The interior of the SUV was dead silent. The thick bulletproof glass completely severed the sound of the pounding rain outside.
Eleanora dropped her soaked canvas bag onto the plush floor mats. She leaned her head back against the soft leather headrest and closed her eyes. Her breathing was shallow, her body shivering slightly from the damp cold.
Devonte glanced at her through the rearview mirror. His jaw tightened. He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed a dry, folded cashmere towel, and passed it back to her.
Eleanora took it. The fabric was warm.
She pressed the towel against her face, dragging it roughly over her skin. The heavy black eyeliner and dark lipstick smeared onto the expensive cashmere, leaving dark, ugly stains.
When she lowered the towel and opened her eyes, the frightened, apathetic high school student was gone.
Her eyes were clear, sharp, and entirely devoid of warmth. Her pulse, which had been racing, slowed to a steady, calculated rhythm.
"Pull up the Sanders family corporate financial logs," Eleanora ordered. Her voice was steady, cutting through the quiet cabin.
Devonte didn't ask questions. He kept one hand on the steering wheel and used the other to tap the center console screen.
A hidden projector hummed to life. A glowing, encrypted financial spreadsheet appeared on the privacy screen dividing the front and back seats.
Eleanora leaned forward, her eyes scanning the scrolling lines of green data.
Her gaze locked onto a massive spike in the outgoing requests column.
"Stop," she said.
Devonte paused the screen.
Eleanora stared at a multi-million dollar life insurance claim filed directly by Aleta Boyd.
She checked the timestamp. The claim had been submitted exactly two hours after Philip's car crashed. Two hours before the police even called Eleanora.
A harsh, bitter laugh scraped its way out of Eleanora's throat.
Aleta hadn't called her because Aleta was too busy making sure the money was secured before the body was even cold.
"Cut them off," Eleanora said. Her fingers dug into the leather seat. "Sever every single shadow account. Terminate the shell company injections. Now."
Devonte nodded. He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. "Aegis Financial. Execute protocol zero on the Sanders accounts. Full withdrawal."
Within three seconds, the green lines of data on the screen turned violently red. Three massive offshore accounts that had been secretly keeping the Sanders family business afloat instantly drained to zero.
The Cadillac merged onto the highway, speeding toward the glowing skyline of Manhattan.
Miles behind them, in the Sanders' living room, Aleta sat on the sofa with her iPad resting on her lap.
She tapped the screen, browsing the VIP section of a high-end jewelry retailer. She selected a fifty-thousand-dollar diamond tennis bracelet and hit the checkout button.
The screen loaded for a second. Then, a bright red error message popped up.
Transaction Denied.
Aleta frowned. She clicked her tongue in annoyance, assuming it was a glitch with the terrible estate Wi-Fi. She refreshed the page twice, watching the loading icon spin in agonizing slow motion. When the page finally reloaded, she clicked the checkout button again, only to see the same red text. She opened her digital wallet, selected her premium black card, and tried again.
Transaction Denied. Account Frozen.
Aleta's heart skipped a beat. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.
She grabbed her phone and dialed the bank's VIP concierge line. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear.
"This is Aleta Boyd," she snapped as soon as the line connected. "Why is my card declining?"
The customer service representative's voice was flat. "Mrs. Boyd, your primary corporate investors have executed a total withdrawal. Your accounts are overdrawn by four million dollars. All assets are currently frozen."
Aleta's hand went entirely numb. The phone slipped from her fingers, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
Upstairs, Cornelia was standing in front of her mirror, holding a black designer dress against her body, completely oblivious to the fact that their world had just collapsed.
The Cadillac pulled into the private underground parking garage of a towering Manhattan skyscraper.
Eleanora stepped out of the car. Her boots clicked against the polished concrete.
She walked into the private elevator. Devonte swiped a black keycard, and the doors slid shut.
The elevator shot upward, stopping at the penthouse.
The doors opened to a massive, open-concept space surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. High-tech servers hummed softly in the background.
Eleanora walked straight to the main console desk.
"Show me the police photos from the crash site," she commanded.
Devonte typed on the keyboard. High-resolution images flashed onto the main monitor.
Eleanora leaned in close to the screen. She stared at the close-up photo of the tire marks on the wet asphalt.
Her eyes narrowed. The skid marks didn't curve. They were perfectly straight, accelerating right into the concrete barrier.
Her stomach tightened. Her blood ran cold.
It wasn't an accident.
