Chapter 5 - THE CONFESSION IN THE VISITATION ROOM
The visitor processing center at the Manhattan Detention Complex smelled of industrial disinfectant and deep-seated despair. I sat behind the scratched Plexiglas partition, waiting as the heavy metal door clicked open and Bianca Hale was escorted in by two female guards.
Gone was the sparkling silver designer dress, the high-end makeup, and my mother’s stolen diamond earrings. In their place was a standard-issue orange jumpsuit, her hair pulled back into a messy, unwashed ponytail. Her face was pale, blotchy from crying, and entirely devoid of the smug arrogance she had worn like armor at the gala.
She sat down heavily on the metal stool on the other side of the glass, picking up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands. I picked up mine.
“You look terrible, Bianca,” I said quietly through the audio feed.
Bianca pressed her lips together, her chest heaving with suppressed rage and fear. “You won. Are you happy now? Adrian is facing thirty years in a federal penitentiary, my brother’s business is ruined, and I’m sitting in a cage like an animal.”
“You chose the cage the moment you decided to help my husband poison me and steal my child,” I replied, my voice completely devoid of pity. “You wore my jewelry, you slept in my bed, and you raised my daughter as a psychological experiment to keep Adrian’s grip on the estate secure. You didn't just participate in a crime; you reveled in it.”
“I didn't have a choice!” Bianca sobbed, her voice cracking as real, desperate tears spilled over her cheeks. “You don't know what Adrian is like when he doesn't get his way. He threatened me! He said if I didn't play along with the narrative—if I didn't keep Maya isolated and compliant—he would destroy my family just like he destroyed yours!”
“Adrian is a coward,” I said flatly. “And you were an ambitious accomplice who thought she was smart enough to outplay a family that built this city. Your lawyer is offering information about his Swiss accounts in exchange for leniency. Why should I tell the prosecutor to accept the deal?”
Bianca leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass partition.
“Because there’s more,” she whispered frantically, glancing around the room as if invisible guards were listening. “Adrian didn't just hide money in Switzerland. He had a backup plan. If things went sideways with the board, he planned to disappear to a private property in South America—a ranch bought under a completely different corporate front. And he had help. Someone inside the federal regulatory commission was feeding him insider updates on our financial audits.”
My eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“I don't know the person's name,” Bianca cried, her fingers clutching the edges of the plastic phone. “Only a code name: The Architect. But Adrian kept the communications on a dedicated encrypted hard drive hidden inside the false bottom of the grand piano in our New York townhouse.”
I stared at her for a long moment, weighing the truth of her words. Adrian was arrogant, but he was also meticulously paranoid. A backup plan involving an insider at the regulatory commission explained how he had managed to stay a step ahead of our initial board investigations six months ago.
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“If this hard drive exists and contains what you claim,” I said slowly, “I will instruct the prosecutor to recommend the minimum sentence for your cooperation. Not a day less.”
Bianca closed her eyes, defeated. “Check the piano pedal compartment. There’s a loose brass screw. Turn it counterclockwise.”
