Chapter 5 - Chloe Disappears
By noon, nobody could find Chloe.
Her Manhattan apartment was empty.
Phone off.
Passport gone.
Julian claimed he didn’t know where she had gone.
I believed almost nothing Julian said anymore.
But I believed that.
Because for the first time since I had known him, he looked completely lost.
I didn’t see him in person.
I saw him on television.
Reporters caught him leaving criminal court after the protective order was entered.
No tailored perfection.
No chauffeur opening the door.
No father beside him.
His cheek was unshaven.
His tie crooked.
A reporter shouted:
“Did you assault your pregnant wife?”
Julian stopped.
His lawyer grabbed his arm.
He pulled free.
“Yes.”
Every microphone surged forward.
His lawyer looked horrified.
Julian continued.
“I struck my wife. There is no excuse.”
Another reporter shouted:
“Did Clara Vance set up the FBI raid?”
Julian looked directly into the cameras.
“My wife did what I should have done years ago.”
I stopped breathing.
“Mr. Vance, did you know about your father’s financial activity?”
“No.”
“Did Clara betray your family?”
Julian’s expression changed.
“No.”
“Then who did?”
He looked toward the courthouse.
“My family betrayed itself.”
Then he got into the car.
I turned off the television.
Naomi, sitting across from me, said:
“That was either accountability or brilliant legal strategy.”
“I don’t care which.”
“You do.”
I looked at her.
She raised one eyebrow.
Annoying woman.
The FBI located Chloe thirty-six hours later.
At LaGuardia.
Trying to board a flight to Miami.
She wasn’t arrested.
Not yet.
But she agreed to an interview.
Mara called me that evening.
“She wants immunity.”
I laughed.
“For what?”
“She won’t say until prosecutors agree to proffer protection.”
“Can she do that?”
“She can ask.”
“Does she have something?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because frightened people bargain differently when they have nothing.”
I walked toward the hospital window.
I had been kept a second night because the contractions returned.
My daughter remained stable.
“Is Julian her baby’s father?”
Mara became quiet.
“I can’t tell you.”
“You know.”
“I know she provided medical documents.”
My skin went cold.
“What kind?”
“Clara.”
“Mara.”
“I cannot tell you.”
Fine.
I would find out another way.
I was discharged the next afternoon.
I did not return to the townhouse.
Naomi arranged a furnished apartment overlooking Central Park.
Security downstairs.
Private elevator.
No Vance employees.
I stood in the unfamiliar living room holding one suitcase.
That was everything I had taken.
Eight years of marriage.
One suitcase.
And somehow I felt lighter.
My mother arrived from Boston that night.
Margaret Hart had never liked the Vances.
She had been polite because I loved Julian.
Now she entered my apartment, took one look at my bruised side, and started crying.
“Mom.”
She held me.
Carefully.
Then pulled back.
“I should have told you.”
I frowned.
“Told me what?”
Her face changed.
That sentence had nothing to do with Julian.
“Mom?”
She sat.
“When you first brought Julian home, I recognized his last name.”
“Everyone knows the Vance name.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I knew Arthur.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Your father worked for him.”
The room went still.
My father had died when I was thirteen.
Car accident.
He had been an accountant.
That was all I knew.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was a controller at one of Arthur’s first companies.”
I stared at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it ended badly.”
“How badly?”
Mom looked at my stomach.
Then at me.
“Three weeks before your father died, he told me Arthur Vance was stealing money.”
I stopped breathing.
“And the night before the crash…”
May you like
Her voice broke.
“He told me he finally had proof.”
