Chapter 4 - The Escape Hatch
Thirty-six hours later, I was sitting in a windowless holding cell at the federal detention center downtown, staring at the gray concrete block wall across from me.
Thanks to a small army of high-priced corporate defense attorneys I managed to activate before my phone was confiscated, I had been granted bail—set at an astronomical five million dollars, secured by every remaining liquid asset I possessed. Vanguard Capital had immediately placed me on indefinite suspension, scrubbing my name from their website and locking me out of my corporate accounts before the sun had even set on the day of the raid.
Vanessa was still being held without bail, her cooperation with the mysterious “P” turning her into a prime target for federal conspiracy charges.
When I walked out of the detention center into the gray Chicago drizzle, my legal counsel, Arthur Vance—a silver-haired veteran of white-collar defense—was waiting by the curb with a black town car.
“Get in, Daniel,” Arthur said tersely as I climbed into the backseat.
The door slammed shut, sealing out the flashing lights of news vans parked across the street.
“Tell me you found something, Arthur,” I demanded, wiping rain from my forehead. “Tell me we can prove those wire transfers were executed by someone else.”
Arthur let out a heavy sigh, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’re working on it, Daniel. But it’s bad. The digital footprint points directly to your corporate login credentials. Someone had full administrative access to your terminal at Vanguard for over a year.”
I reached automatically into my trouser pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold, familiar shape of the brass skeleton key Claire had left me. I had kept it hidden through the booking process, slipping it into my lining before my clothes were tagged.
“The Maine cabin,” I muttered, half to myself.
“What about it?” Arthur asked, looking over.
“When my marriage collapsed, Claire left me a key and a photograph of our honeymoon cabin in Bar Harbor. The property I supposedly sold three years ago.”
Arthur frowned. “I checked the public registry records in Hancock County, Maine, yesterday morning. The cabin was never sold to a corporation. It was transferred into a private irrevocable trust two years ago. And the sole beneficiary of that trust...” He paused, checking his tablet. “...is Claire Bennett.”
My chest tightened. “She owns it. She’s always owned it.”
“Which means,” Arthur continued, his eyes sharpening, “that whatever is hidden inside that cabin is the smoking gun. Either it’s the physical server farm they used to clone your credentials, or it’s the paper trail linking the shell companies to whoever set you up.”
I pulled the brass key out of my pocket, turning it over in my palm. The serial number stamped into the metal caught the dim light of the car interior: MK-409.
“Drive me to O’Hare,” I said suddenly.
Arthur stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “Daniel, your passport has been seized by the court. You’re under federal travel restrictions. If you try to board a commercial flight—”
“I’m not flying commercial,” I interrupted, my voice hardening. “And I’m not leaving the country. I’m driving to Maine.”
Twelve hours later, pushing a rented Ford sedan well past the speed limit through the winding, tree-lined roads of coastal Maine, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of purple and orange.
The rain had stopped, leaving behind a thick, atmospheric mist that rolled off the Atlantic and blanketed the pine forests of Bar Harbor.
I turned down the familiar dirt road—a bumpy, isolated track that wound through dense woods before opening up onto the rocky shoreline. There was no security gate. No armed guards. Just the weathered wooden sign hanging crookedly from an oak tree: The Anchorage.
I parked the sedan fifty yards from the cabin, cutting the engine and the headlights. The forest was dead silent, save for the distant crashing of waves against the rocky cliffs below.
I stepped out of the car, the chilly Maine air biting through my jacket. I reached into my pocket, my fingers closing around the brass key.
As I walked up the creaking wooden steps of the front porch, every instinct I possessed screamed at me to turn around. The federal government was hunting me. Vanessa was singing to the grand jury. My career, my money, and my reputation were completely destroyed.
And yet, standing in front of the heavy oak door of the cabin, I felt a strange, morbid sense of calm.
I slid the brass key into the old-fashioned iron lock.
May you like
It fit perfectly. With a satisfying click, the deadbolt turned.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
