Chapter 7 - The Aftermath in Lincoln Park
By four o'clock that afternoon, the rain over Chicago had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, biting autumn chill that smelled of lake water and fallen leaves.
Nate was still my driver. When I had offered to pay him for the entire day to keep him on call, he had simply smiled and kept the meter running, driving me from the Preston Tower down to the tree-lined streets of Lincoln Park.
When the car pulled up to the curb outside my brownstone, the scene was already surreal. Two unmarked police cruisers were parked with their lights softly flashing. A massive commercial moving van was parked directly in front of the limestone steps, its hydraulic ramp lowered to the street.
Three professional movers in gray uniforms were carrying out large, plastic-wrapped wardrobe boxes containing Tim’s designer suits, his golf clubs, and his high-end sound equipment.
Sitting on the curb, wrapped in an oversized trench coat, was Diane. Because she had posted bail through an emergency bail bondsman within hours—using the deed to her modest suburban home as collateral—she had rushed straight here, hoping to salvage whatever she could.
Her hair was a wild nest of silver-blonde strands. Her designer makeup was smeared around her eyes. When she saw me step out of the Uber, she scrambled to her feet, her heels clicking frantically against the sidewalk.
""You evil little witch!"" she shrieked, lunging toward me.
Before she could take three steps, Marcus—who had arrived twenty minutes earlier with two private security guards to secure the premises—stepped smoothly into her path, blocking her with his broad, immovable frame.
""Step back, ma'am,"" Marcus warned, his voice low and dangerous. ""You are trespassing on private property owned by the Preston Heritage Trust. Any further approach toward Miss Preston will result in an immediate violation of your bail conditions.""
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""She stole my son's life!"" Diane screamed, her voice cracking as several neighbors stepped out onto their front stoops to watch the spectacle. ""Everything he has is in that house!""
""Everything he has was purchased with stolen money, Diane,"" I said, stopping a safe ten feet away, my hands tucked into the pockets of my coat. ""The FBI has already frozen Tim’s personal bank accounts, Bryce’s shell corporation accounts, and your retirement fund, which was padded with fifty thousand dollars in unapproved bonus payments.""
