Three hours later, the adrenaline had completely left my system, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that made my limbs feel like lead. I was sitting in a sterile, fluorescent-lit interview room at the federal building downtown, a paper cup of lukewarm black coffee sitting between my hands.
The left side of my face had swollen considerably, a deep purple bruise marking the exact outline of my father’s signet ring. A female field medic had given me an ice pack earlier, but I had let it melt against the laminate table. The physical pain was nothing compared to the profound, hollow quiet that had settled into my mind.
The door clicked open, and Agent Miller walked in, carrying a thick legal folio. He looked tired, but there was a distinct expression of professional satisfaction on his face.
"Your father’s lawyers have already arrived," Miller said, sitting across from me and opening the file. "They’re throwing everything they have at the wall—procedural errors, familial privilege, mental health defense for Arthur. But it’s not going to stick. The forensic routing paths you provided us are watertight. We’ve already frozen the primary accounts of Vance Logistics. Julian’s firm is effectively dead as of two o'clock this afternoon."
"And my mother?" I asked, my voice dry.
"She’s currently being questioned in Room 4," Miller replied, leaning back. "She’s claiming she had zero operational knowledge of the corporate accounts, but we found her digital signature on three separate loan reallocation forms that were filed from her personal IP address at the country club. She’s looking at conspiracy charges at the very least. Best-case scenario for her is a plea bargain that involves significant restitution and federal probation."
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes scanning the bruise on my cheek. "You took a big risk up there on that stage, Audrey. If your father had been armed, or if the crowd had turned into a panic, things could have gone very badly."
"If I had done it quietly, Agent Miller," I said, looking up, "they would have bought their way out of it. My father has judges on his payroll. He has public relations firms that can make a corporate fraud investigation disappear from the local papers within twenty minutes. The only way to ensure they couldn't run was to make the disclosure so public, so undeniable, that any judge who tried to show them leniency would be committing professional suicide."
Miller let out a low, appreciative whistle. "You’ve got a strategic mind, kid. You sure you don't want to work for the IRS? We could use someone who can track a shell company while maintaining a 4.0 GPA."
"I have a corporate consulting job lined up in Chicago," I said, a small, genuine smile appearing on my face for the first time all day. "It starts in two weeks. They don't know anything about my family. They just liked my thesis on algorithmic market manipulation."
"Well, they’re getting a hell of an employee," Miller said, standing up and extending his hand. "Your father’s assets are going to be tied up in litigation for years, but under the federal victims' restitution statutes, we’ve already filed a motion to liquidate Julian’s luxury vehicle fleet to pay off the outstanding balance of the loans under your name. Your credit score will be fully restored by the end of the month."
"Thank you, Agent," I said, shaking his hand.
When I stepped out of the federal building, the sun was beginning to set over the Hudson River, casting a long, brilliant orange glow across the concrete plaza. Paige was leaning against her car, two cardboard boxes of takeout food sitting on the hood.
She didn't ask me how I felt. She didn't ask me if I was sad about my parents going to prison. She just walked over, wrapped her arms around me, and held me until the tension finally left my shoulders.
"Come on," Paige said, opening the passenger door. "Let’s get you out of that gown. We have a real celebration to attend. Just you, me, and a large pizza that doesn't smell like grease from the diner."
