Chapter 9 - THE ANATOMY OF A FALL
The ballroom cleared in six minutes.
Wealthy people do not linger near financial crime scenes; they scatter like roaches when the halogen lights flicker on.
Camille tried to slip out through the service exit behind the catering line, clutching her red silk clutch to her chest like a shield.
She was met at the kitchen doors by a woman in a gray business suit holding a manila folder: Julian Sterling’s senior associate.
"Camille Laurent?"
Camille stopped, her heels skidding on the commercial kitchen tile. "I don't know anything about this! Terrence handled the money! He put my name on those accounts without my permission!"
The associate handed her a thick sheaf of legal documents. "This is an emergency asset freeze and an order for immediate surrender of your passport. The four point two million dollars transferred to Vanguard Meridian has been placed under federal commercial lien. If you attempt to access those funds, access any airport terminal, or leave the state of Georgia, you will be remanded into custody for criminal conspiracy."
Camille dropped the papers. They fluttered across the floor, scattering against industrial dishwashers.
"Naomi!" Camille screamed, turning back toward the ballroom where Naomi stood alone near the windows. "Naomi, please! We’re family! Auntie will never forgive you for this! I was broke! He manipulated me!"
Naomi didn't even turn around.
She stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over the glittering grid of downtown Atlanta. The streetlights stretched out toward Decatur, toward the highway where twenty years ago three flatbed trucks had rattled through the night carrying freight she had scheduled by hand.
Behind her, the deputies hauled Terrence to his feet.
Frosting was smeared across his nose, his forehead, his tailored lapels. The Brioni jacket was torn at the shoulder seam where the deputy had gripped him.
"You have nothing without me, Naomi!" Terrence spat, his voice cracking, hoarse with the pathetic fury of an exposed fraud. "You’re an accountant! Nobody remembers the accountant! I gave this company a face! I gave it life!"
Naomi turned slowly.
She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in ten years.
She saw the thinning hair he carefully combed over. She saw the soft, weak jawline that had grown heavy on three-hundred-dollar steak dinners he couldn't afford. She saw the deep, hollow terror in his eyes: the terror of a man who realized that without her credit, without her intellect, without her relentless, silent labor, he was simply sixty-two dollars and a cracked briefcase on a futon over a laundromat.
"You gave it a face, Terrence," she said softly. "And tonight, everyone saw what that face looks like."
She gestured to the deputies. "Take him downstairs. The tow truck driver needs him to clear his personal effects from the Porsche before it’s loaded onto the flatbed."
"Naomi!" Terrence screamed as they dragged him toward the service elevator. "Naomi! Talk to me! We can settle this! We’re partners! Naomi!"
The heavy steel elevator doors slid shut.
His voice vanished.
The ballroom was silent.
The pianist had left his sheet music on the Steinway. The lilies smelled sweet, heavy, almost funeral-like in the empty, chandelier-lit room.
Naomi walked over to the head table.
She picked up a clean linen napkin.
She wiped a tiny speck of white cream from the edge of her phone screen.
Then she picked up the silver charm bracelet lying beside her plate.
She walked to the window, opened the small ventilation sash that let in the cool, night air from forty stories up, and looked down at the street below.
She slipped the bracelet into her hand.
The little house. The truck. The warehouse.
She let her fingers open.
May you like
The silver caught the city light for a fraction of a second, tumbling down through the darkness into the concrete canyons below, disappearing without a sound.
***
