Chapter 7 - Shadows on 4th StreetWhile Jonathan was declaring war on his own board, a darker storm was brewing in the decaying corridors of the 4th Street tenement.
Marcus Vance—not the corporate lawyer, but a sharp-eyed, predatory family court investigator with a history of legally seizing children from impoverished guardians—stood outside Apartment 3B.
He held a clipboard thick with red-inked violations.
Illegal occupancy. Unlicensed foster care. Medical neglect of a minor due to guardian incapacitation. State wardship mandate #44-B.
Marcus smiled a cold, thin smile. He didn't care about Josie Lund’s happiness. He cared about the federal grants and state placement bonuses that flowed into private juvenile facilities every time a child slipped through the cracks of the system. And now that Jonathan Hail had attached his multi-billion-dollar name to the child, the stakes—and the potential legal settlement payouts—had skyrocketed.
He raised his hand and knocked loudly on the peeling wooden door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Inside, there was no sound except for the faint scratching of claws against the floorboards.
Marcus didn't wait for an answer. He pulled a master skeleton key from his pocket—a perk of his corrupted position within the municipal welfare office—slid it into the brass lock, and turned it with a satisfying click.
The door swung open.
The apartment was impeccably clean, despite its peeling wallpaper and secondhand furniture. On the small kitchen table sat a half-eaten box of graham crackers and a small, handmade drawing of an orange cat with a stubby tail.
"Hello?" Marcus called out, stepping inside, his shoes clicking loudly on the linoleum. "Child Services inspection! Open up!"
From the hallway closet—the very cedar closet Josie had hidden in years ago—a faint sound echoed. A rustling of old blankets.
Marcus grinned, walking over to the closet door and gripping the brass handle. "Come on out, little girl. You're coming with me to a nice, state-approved facility where billionaires can't play dress-up with your life."
He yanked the door open.
Inside wasn't Josie.
Crouched in the corner, clutching an old baseball bat with trembling, weathered hands, was a woman who looked strikingly like Martha Bell—except younger, sharper, and utterly furious.
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It was Martha’s estranged younger sister, Eleanor, who had driven all the way from upstate New York the moment she saw the news on television.
"Get out of my sister's house, you vulture," Eleanor snarled, raising the baseball bat and aiming it squarely at Marcus Vance’s expensive nose.
