Chapter 6 - The Liquidation Ledger
Arthur Vance gestured to the enforcement clerk, who stepped forward with a heavy tablet. With a single tap, a high-resolution holographic projector linked to the yacht’s entertainment display flickered to life.
Across the sixty-inch exterior monitors that had been playing smooth yacht jazz moments before, a massive financial ledger illuminated the afternoon shade.
It was an autopsy of the Richardson family’s entire existence.
Item 1: Richardson Logistics Terminal, Boston Harbor — Foreclosed.
Item 2: The Richardson Manor, Beacon Hill — Receiver appointed, locks scheduled for change at 5:00 PM.
Item 3: The Martha’s Vineyard Summer Estate — Repossessed under cross-collateralization clause 14-D.
Item 4: M/Y Sovereign Lady — Seized under Maritime Lien Act, Warrant #88219.
Item 5: All personal depository accounts at Sovereign Trust — Frozen for restitution.
Total outstanding deficiency: $14,200,000.
The guests didn't wait to see Item 6.
“Charles, we’re leaving,” one of the lead investors snapped, shoving his phone into his pocket. He didn't even look at Charles; he looked at the police sergeant standing by the boarding gate. “Officer, is there room on your cutter to transport non-parties back to the marina? We have nothing to do with this family’s fraudulent enterprise.”
“Wait! Richard, please!” Charles cried, stumbling toward the man, his hands trembling in supplication. “Don't leave! We have a signed memorandum of understanding! We can find another bridge loan! We can talk to the European syndicates!”
“Don't touch me, Charles,” the investor said, jerking his arm away with disgust. “You invited us out here under the guise of an operational expansion while your bank was literally hunting you down on the water. You’re a fraud. And your son is an embarrassment.”
One by one, the twelve guests filed past the Richardson family.
Nobody said goodbye to Eleanor. Nobody offered Julian a handshake. They stepped down the boarding ladder onto the police tender with their heads down, eager to distance themselves from the radioactive wreckage of the Richardson name.
Within five minutes, the deck was empty, save for the state marshals, Arthur Vance, the Richardson family, and me.
Eleanor was sobbing now, messy, undisciplined sobs that ran her expensive mascara down her cheeks in dark, ugly streaks. “Julian… do something! Talk to her! You were going to propose to her next month! You told me you were going to buy her a ring!”
“Propose?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow at Julian.
Julian looked like he wanted the ocean to open up and swallow him whole. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror.
“Sienna… please,” Julian choked out, taking a frantic step toward me, his hands outstretched. “Sienna, baby, listen to me. You know I love you. You know how much I care about you! The stuff with my mom… you know how she is! She’s from an older generation, she doesn't understand modern women! I was going to tell her to stop, I swear to God I was!”
“You were sitting right there, Julian,” I said, pointing to the teak lounge. “You watched your mother throw a drink at my chest. You watched your father call me an ignorant tramp. And you told me to go down below and slice lemons so I wouldn't ruin your afternoon.”
“I was panicked!” he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes, his voice breaking into a pathetic whine. “My dad has been under so much pressure! I didn't know what to do! But we have eight months together! Eight months of real love! That has to mean something to you!”
“It meant a great deal to me, Julian,” I said, my voice completely cold. “It taught me that when you thought I had nothing, you treated me like an accessory you could discard whenever your parents found me inconvenient. You didn't love me. You loved the idea of a humble, pretty girl who looked up to you because you couldn't command respect from anyone your own size.”
“Sienna, please!” Charles dropped his cigar completely, taking two heavy, staggering steps forward before falling onto his knees on the teak deck.
The great Charles Richardson.
The titan of Boston shipping.
The man who had spent thirty years looking down his nose at people who earned hourly wages.
He was kneeling on Burma teak planks, his hands clutching at the hem of my stained linen dress, his forehead almost touching my sandals.
“Miss Mercer… Madam President… I beg of you,” Charles sobbed, the tears streaming freely down his wrinkled cheeks. “Don't take the Beacon Hill house. It’s been in my family for four generations. My mother died in that house. If you take the house, we have nowhere to go. We have no liquid cash. Everything is tied up in the cross-default covenants!”
I looked down at him.
May you like
I remembered the way he had tapped his cigar ash onto the deck ten minutes earlier. I remembered the sneer on his face when he told me I should charge overtime for cleaning up the drink his wife had thrown at me.
“You should have thought about your mother’s house, Charles,” I said, stepping back so his fingers slipped off my hem, “before you spent forty million dollars of depositors’ money on luxury charter leases and country club memberships.”
