Chapter 11 - The Farmhouse.
The FBI traced Michael’s call to a farmhouse outside Carbondale.
Agents reached the property forty minutes later.
They found broken windows, blood on the kitchen floor, and two spent shell casings.
There was no body.
Tire tracks led from the house to a rural road.
A neighbor had seen two dark sport-utility vehicles leaving at high speed.
One traveled north.
The other headed toward Missouri.
Michael’s phone lay shattered beneath the porch.
Preston, my father, and Michael had all been there.
Whether Michael was alive remained unknown.
Sophie heard the gunshot in her dreams.
She woke crying and asked why her father had called only to disappear again.
I had no answer that would not sound like another abandonment.
Dr. Ellis stayed with her while I met federal investigators.
Agent Cole believed Michael might have escaped during the struggle.
Only a small amount of blood was found.
One bullet was lodged inside a kitchen cabinet.
The other had passed through the wall.
There was no evidence either struck a person.
The farmhouse belonged to a former Hale Construction employee named Samuel Reed, who died three years earlier.
He had worked as Grandfather’s private investigator.
Inside a false compartment beneath the floor, agents found photographs, audio recordings, and copies of Michael’s engineering reports.
They did not find the original Northstar ledger.
Michael still had it, or someone had taken it.
Nathan Crowe appeared on television that morning.
He denied involvement in the old investigation’s collapse and accused federal agents of retaliating against him for representing Preston.
He claimed Preston had contacted him through counsel and denied being present at the farmhouse.
His performance was flawless.
Preston had learned from the best.
At noon, the independent auditors presented their preliminary findings to Hale Construction’s board.
Northstar had received more than ninety million dollars over nine years through changing company names.
Some money flowed to my parents.
Some went to Preston.
Nearly thirty million disappeared into an account labeled CROWN RESERVE.
Margaret suspected the name referred to Nathan Crowe.
The board voted to remove my father permanently as chief executive.
Helen Cho became interim CEO.
Employees applauded when the announcement was made at headquarters.
I watched a recording from the hotel.
For years, my father had convinced me that challenging him would destroy everyone.
Instead, removing him appeared to free them.
My mother requested another meeting.
This time her attorney attended.
She offered full cooperation in exchange for reduced charges.
Prosecutors made no promises.
Mother explained that Richard had built an escape plan called “the Second Foundation.”
Money, identification documents, safe houses, and loyal contractors were maintained for emergencies.
One safe house was located near the Mississippi River.
Another stood across the border in Canada.
A third was hidden somewhere inside Chicago.
“Where?” Ruiz asked.
“I never knew the address.”
“What did Richard call it?”
“The Chapel.”
I remembered the stone chapel on my grandfather’s former estate.
It had been closed for years after a fire damaged the surrounding property.
Hale Construction still owned the land.
Police searched it immediately.
The chapel was empty, but the basement contained recent food, medical supplies, ammunition, and several surveillance monitors.
One live feed showed the Whitmore Hotel.
Another showed Sophie’s school.
A third showed my townhouse.
They had been watching us before the wedding.
On a desk, detectives found a map marked with routes to airports, marinas, and private roads.
A red line led to a small industrial dock along the Chicago River.
Security footage from nearby businesses showed one of the farmhouse vehicles entering the dock that morning.
It never came out.
Ruiz, Cole, and a tactical team moved toward the river.
I remained at the hotel.
At three in the afternoon, Malik called from the security office.
A delivery had arrived for Sophie.
There was no return address.
Bomb technicians examined the package.
Inside was the small cloth heart stolen from Captain Marshmallow.
It was wrapped around a memory card.
The card contained a video recorded less than an hour earlier.
Michael sat inside a dark room.
His hands were tied.
A bruise covered one side of his face.
My father stood behind him.
Preston held the camera.
“Evelyn,” Father said.
“You have taken the company.”
“You have turned your mother against us.”
“You have invited federal agents into private family affairs.”
“This ends tonight.”
The camera moved toward Michael.
My father placed a gun against his head.
“Bring Sophie’s trust documents and the original voting certificate to the river dock at midnight.”
“Come alone.”
“Transfer the shares to me.”
“Then Michael lives.”
Michael lifted his face.
His voice was weak.
“Don’t do it.”
Preston struck him.
The camera shook.
My father smiled.
“You always wanted your family reunited.”
“Here is your chance.”
The video ended with a view through a dirty window.
Beyond the glass stood the illuminated clock tower of the Whitmore Hotel.
Malik froze the frame.
“They aren’t at the river dock.”
I stared at the clock tower.
The angle was wrong for the industrial district.
“They’re still inside the city.”
Malik enlarged the reflection in the window.
A red neon sign appeared backward across the glass.
He reversed the image.
The words became clear.
CROWN THEATRE.
May you like
The abandoned Crown Theatre stood six blocks from the hotel.
And according to Hale Construction’s private records, it had been purchased through Northstar three years earlier.
