Chapter 6 - The Ghost of the PastTwo weeks later, the dust in Chicago had settled into a heavy, suffocating silence around the remnants of the Whitmore empire.
The corporate headquarters was padlocked by federal marshals. My father had suffered a mild stroke upon hearing that the family assets were completely liquidated, and was currently recovering in a secured hospital wing under police guard. My mother had locked herself inside the penthouse, refusing to answer calls from former society friends who had all vanished like smoke in a gale.
And Preston? Preston was sitting in Cook County Jail, awaiting a trial where federal prosecutors were already pushing for a fifteen-year sentence without parole.
I drove downtown to the county jail on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I didn't go to gloat. I went because there was one final loose end to tie up.
When Preston was led into the glass-partitioned visitor booth, he looked unrecognizable. The custom tuxedo was gone, replaced by a drab orange jumpsuit. His hair was unstyled, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, filled with a virulent, burning hatred.
He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver. I picked up mine.
"You happy now, you miserable witch?" Preston’s voice crackled through the speaker, distorted by rage. "You ruined my life! You destroyed everything Dad built! All because I lost my temper with a brat who deserved it!"
I leaned forward, my face inches from the glass, my voice steady, low, and crystal clear.
"You didn't lose your temper, Preston. You lost your control because for thirty years, you were handed everything while working for nothing," I said softly. "You thought you could frame an eight-year-old child to save your own skin, and that our parents would help you sweep it under the rug like they always did."
Preston slammed his fist against the glass, making the heavy partition shudder. "I’ll get out of here! I have high-priced lawyers! And when I do—"
"When you do," I interrupted smoothly, "there won't be a penny left to your name. Whitmore Enterprises is bankrupt. The family estate is seized. And you are legally barred from ever touching a corporate account again."
May you like
I stood up, adjusting my coat.
"Goodbye, Preston. Enjoy your new home."
