Chapter 17 - The Fall of the House of Stanton
The arrest of Senator Richard Stanton and his daughter Noelle became the media spectacle of the century in Pennsylvania.
At seven o'clock that night, news vans with satellite dishes surrounded the gated Stanton estate in Society Hill. Flashing emergency lights painted the ancient brick mansions in hues of crimson and cobalt. A dozen federal marshals, accompanied by Philadelphia police captains, marched up the stone steps with battering rams at the ready.
They didn't need the ram. The heavy oak doors swung open, and Richard Stanton was led out in handcuffs, his expensive cashmere sweater rumpled, his head bowed low to avoid the blinding flashes of twenty photojournalists shouting questions over the sirens.
"Senator! Did you hire a hitman to break into an architect's home?"
"Did you forge your late colleague's signature to frame an innocent mother?"
Behind him came Noelle.
She wasn't the polished heiress in hand-sewn lace anymore. Her makeup was ruined, her eyes wide with unhinged, trapped panic as female federal marshals gripped her arms, escorting her down the driveway. When she saw the bank of cameras, she lunged toward a reporter, screaming hysterically:
"Evan Brooks destroyed my family! He’s a liar! It was supposed to be my life! He belonged to me!"
"Keep moving, Miss Stanton," the marshal said coldly, shoving her gently into the back of a waiting armored transport vehicle. The heavy steel door slammed shut, cutting off her screams, leaving only the reflection of the flashing red sirens against the reinforced glass.
Back in our Fairmount kitchen, the television was muted.
Rachel sat on the sofa, her hands resting quietly in her lap, watching the silent ticker tape run across the bottom of the news screen: STANTON DYNASTY INDICTED ON FEDERAL RACKETEERING CHARGES; CIVIL LAWSUITS DISMISSED WITH PREJUDICE.
I walked into the room carrying two warm mugs of herbal tea, sat beside her, and gently set the mugs on the coffee table.
She turned to look at me. Her face was serene, completely free of the ghost that had haunted her since that rainy afternoon in Rittenhouse Square.
"Is it really done, Evan?" she whispered softly, her fingers finding mine.
"The judge threw out the civil suit an hour ago, Rach," I said, kissing the knuckle of her ring finger. "Their bank accounts are frozen by the federal government. Harold Finch lost his law license this afternoon. Noelle and her father are facing ten to fifteen years in federal penitentiary without parole. They will never touch us again. They will never speak our children's names again."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, but this time, it was a tear of pure, crystalline release.
From the hallway, the sound of tiny giggles broke out. The bedroom door opened, and Leo, Maya, and Sophie tiptoed into the living room in their pajamas, holding a colorful piece of construction paper between them.
"Look, Mommy! Look, Daddy!" Maya whispered excitedly, climbing onto the sofa and pressing the paper into Rachel’s lap.
It was a drawing made with thick crayons. In the center were five stick figures holding hands under an enormous golden sun, standing before a red brick rowhouse with flowers in the window boxes. Above the figures, in Leo’s wobbly, backward kindergarten handwriting, were four words:
May you like
OUR HAPPY EVER AFTER.
Rachel pressed the drawing against her chest, pulled our three children into her arms, and wept tears of pure, unadulterated joy. I wrapped my arms around all four of them, burying my face in the warmth of their embrace, knowing that no shadow on earth could ever tear this house apart.
