Chapter 3 - The Oak Street TrapOak Street was glittering under the afternoon drizzle, its high-end boutiques glowing like warm beacons of wealth against the dreary weather. I stood across the street beneath the green awning of a coffee shop, wearing an oversized hoodie and a pair of dark sunglasses, clutching a paper cup of black coffee that I wasn’t drinking.
At 2:15 PM, a sleek black Porsche Cayenne pulled up illegally in the red zone outside L’Hiver Luxury Consignment.
Paige stepped out first, her blonde hair perfectly blown out, wearing a cream cashmere coat that cost more than my first car. Grant hopped out of the driver's side, looking anxious, constantly checking his phone while she slammed the car door and strutted toward the boutique entrance.
I pulled out my burner phone and tapped out a quick text to Arthur’s contact inside the Chicago Police Department’s art and antiquities division.
Target is entering L’Hiver Consignment on Oak Street now. Item: Platinum and diamond tennis bracelet, serial number RH-8842 engraved on the clasp. Value: $120,000.
Within four minutes, an unmarked silver sedan pulled up directly behind Grant’s Porsche, its flashing blue dashboard light illuminating the rear window. Two detectives in trench coats stepped out and strode purposefully into the boutique.
I couldn’t hear what was being said inside through the thick glass windows, but the body language told the entire story.
Paige had her hands raised in immediate, frantic protest, her mouth wide open in an outraged O-shape. The store manager was pointing a trembling finger toward the back counter where a velvet tray lay open. Grant burst through the boutique door a moment later, rushing back inside like a furious guard dog, his face flushed red.
I watched from across the street, sipping my cold coffee, as Detective Vance—a towering man with iron-gray hair—placed a pair of silver handcuffs around Grant’s wrists. Not for grand larceny of a stranger’s property, but for possession of stolen estate assets under active probate dispute.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Arthur:
May you like
“First blood, Evie. The bracelet is secured. Grant is in holding at the 18th District. Your mother is already screaming at the desk sergeant.”
I smiled, locked the phone, and tossed the empty coffee cup into the recycling bin. The house of cards was wobbling. Next came the foundation.
