Chapter 4 - The Lion's Den
The two-mile private driveway leading to Foxwood was lined with thousands of twinkling white fairy lights, illuminating snow-covered boxwood hedges and ice sculptures of galloping thoroughbreds.
Valets in black tuxedos scrambled through the blizzard, parking luxury sedans and town cars beneath the heated marble portico. Laughter and the swelling notes of a live brass quintet spilled through the massive mahogany double doors.
I stepped out of my vehicle without an overcoat, the freezing sleet biting into my dress shirt, but I didn't feel the cold. The rage burning in my chest was an incandescent furnace.
"Mr. Callahan!" the estate manager greeted me with a nervous bow. "Your mother was beginning to worry. The French ambassador has been waiting in the library to speak with you about the defense cloud contract."
I didn't answer. I walked straight past him, my heavy dress shoes striking the imported Italian marble with rhythmic, echoing thuds.
The grand ballroom was a glittering spectacle of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and evergreen boughs. Hundreds of D.C.’s most powerful figures were chatting over crystal flutes of Dom Pérignon, their silk gowns and diamond cufflinks glittering beneath the warm lights.
At the far end of the room, standing beside a ten-foot marble fireplace, was Eleanor Callahan.
At sixty-four, she looked magnificent. She wore an emerald-green velvet ballgown, her silver-streaked hair styled into an intricate chignon, an antique diamond choker gleaming at her throat. She was smiling, holding court with two United States senators, laughing with the practiced charm that had made her a legend in high society.
Beside her stood Carter Hayes, his silver hair slicked back, sipping scotch with the relaxed smugness of a lawyer who believed his legal traps were impenetrable.
As I walked down the center aisle of the ballroom, conversation began to die away like ripples in a pond. People turned to greet me, raising their glasses, but the expression on my face froze the words in their throats.
I wasn't smiling. My posture was stiff, my jaw locked, my eyes fixed entirely on the woman in emerald velvet.
Eleanor turned, spotting me through the crowd. Her face lit up with theatrical relief, and she extended both hands toward me as I approached.
"Everett, darling!" she exclaimed, her voice projecting effortlessly across the front rows. "We were terrified the storm had trapped you in the city! Come, Senator Bradley was just asking about the third-quarter earnings—"
I stopped three feet from her, ignoring her outstretched hands. The silence in the ballroom expanded, thick and suffocating, until even the brass quintet stopped playing.
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"Where were you on the morning of July 14th, Mother?" I asked.
The question was spoken in a conversational, quiet baritone, yet it sliced through the grand ballroom like a guillotine blade.
