Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Cross Atlantic
The federal holding facility in downtown Chicago smelled of bleach, wet concrete, and institutional despair.
Damien Cross sat on the edge of a bolted-down steel bunk in Cell Block 4B, wearing a standard-issue orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his frame. The man who had once negotiated multi-million-dollar maritime contracts in plush walnut boardrooms now stared blankly at a crack in the cinderblock wall.
His lawyers had abandoned him three days ago when the bank accounts were frozen and the forfeiture orders seized every personal asset he owned—his homes, his cars, his offshore accounts, his grandfather’s vintage watch collection.
Cross Atlantic Freight was gone. The name was scrubbed from the harbor towers, replaced by a restructuring entity managed by a board appointed by Clara Whitman.
A heavy set of keys jingled outside the steel door. A correctional officer banged a nightstick against the bars.
“Cross. Visitor in Booth Three. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Damien didn't move for a long moment. He had expected visits from federal investigators or bankruptcy trustees. Instead, he stood up slowly, his joints stiff, and followed the guard down the fluorescent-lit corridor to the glass-partitioned visitation booths.
He sat down in the molded plastic chair and picked up the heavy black receiver.
On the other side of the scratched Plexiglas sat a woman in a simple beige trench coat. Her dark hair was pulled back, her face devoid of makeup, but her posture was straight and unyielding.
Grace.
Damien’s breath caught in his throat. He pressed his palm against the glass partition, as if he could bridge the infinite chasm that now separated them.
“Grace,” he choked out, his voice hoarse and broken. “God... Grace, I’m so sorry.”
Grace picked up her receiver. Her face was a mask of serene, untouchable calm. She didn't look angry. She didn't look vengeful. She looked at him the way a scientist might look at a specimen under a microscope—with clinical, detached curiosity.
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Damien,” Grace said, her voice carrying clearly through the intercom speaker. “The apology won’t bring back our child, and it won’t give you back your company.”
“Why are you here?” Damien whispered, tears finally spilling over his eyelids, cutting hot tracks down his hollow cheeks. “To gloat? To watch me rot in here?”
“No,” Grace replied evenly. “I’m here to give you closure. And to make sure you understand something before I walk out of this building and never think of your name again.”
Damien swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. “Anything. Tell me anything.”
“You spent your whole life accumulating power because you thought money made you untouchable,” Grace said, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying clarity. “You thought you could buy a quiet wife, buy your way out of crime syndicates, and buy your way out of accountability when things got inconvenient.”
She stood up slowly, resting her coat over her arm.
“You let my phone ring twelve times, Damien, thinking I was just a nagging wife who could wait,” Grace said softly. “You forgot that when you ignore someone long enough, they stop asking for your help. And they start building the case against you.”
“Grace, please!” Damien shouted, slamming his fist against the glass partition as the correctional officer stepped forward. “Don't leave me here! I have nothing left! I’ll lose my mind in this place!”
“You already lost it the night you chose your mistress over your family,” Grace said without a single tremor in her voice. “Goodbye, Damien.”
May you like
She turned around, walking down the long corridor toward the exit without looking back once.
Damien pressed his forehead against the cold glass, the receiver slipping from his trembling fingers to dangle by its coiled cord against the metal wall, swinging back and forth in the empty air—ringing, ringing, ringing, with no one left to answer.
