Chapter 8 - The Airport Confrontation
The private terminal at O'Hare was blindingly bright compared to the rainy night outside.
I waited in the idling SUV with Evie and Leo. The heater was blasting. Leo was asleep against my side, clutching my hand. Evie was resting comfortably, her breathing steady now that we had administered her emergency medication.
Through the tinted windows, I watched Adrian walk through the glass doors of the terminal.
He didn't bring his men. He walked in alone.
Inside the terminal, Vivian was pacing nervously near the boarding gate. She was wearing a stunning white cashmere coat, looking every bit the wealthy socialite.
When she saw Adrian, she froze.
I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I could see it unfold like a silent movie.
Vivian tried to smile, stepping toward him with her hands out, playing the innocent fiancée.
Adrian didn't yell. He didn't pull a weapon.
He simply reached into his pocket and dropped the engraved silver watch onto the polished marble floor at her feet.
Vivian looked down. Her perfect smile vanished.
Adrian pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and held the phone up for her to see.
Suddenly, two airport police officers stepped out from the security office. They flanked Vivian.
She began to scream, her face twisted in rage. She pointed at Adrian, shouting desperately, trying to talk her way out of it. She pulled out a small leather journal—Evie’s stolen journal—waving it like a weapon.
She opened it, pointing to the pages, screaming something at the police.
Adrian calmly stepped forward, took the journal from her hands, and handed it to the officers.
Whatever was written inside didn't help her. The officers handcuffed Vivian Ashford.
As they dragged her away, kicking and screaming, she locked eyes with Adrian. He didn't even blink. He turned his back on her and walked out of the terminal.
When he got back into the SUV, he let out a long, heavy exhale.
“It’s over,” he said quietly, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“What was in the journal?” I asked.
“Forged entries,” Adrian replied, disgust in his voice. “She spent months practicing Evie’s handwriting, writing fake entries claiming Evie murdered my mother and stole money. She was going to use it as an alibi if I ever questioned her taking control of the estate. But she forgot one detail.”
“What?”
“Evie is left-handed,” Adrian said. “The slant of the forged letters was right-handed. It was a sloppy mistake by a desperate woman.”
He looked down at Leo, who was sleeping peacefully against my shoulder.
“Where do we go now?” I asked.
“Home,” Adrian said, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips for the first time since I met him. “We all go home.”
But as the SUV pulled away from the airport, my phone buzzed.
It was an unknown number.
I opened the text message. It was a picture of my younger sister, walking into her community college library, taken ten minutes ago.
Underneath the photo was a single line of text:
May you like
Did you really think Vivian was the one paying my bills, Sophie? Bring the boy to the docks, or your sister pays the price. — Hayes.
TITLE: The Estate Manager’s Last Hand
