The Lawyer

"She picked up the phone," Elena said to them. "Not to Marcus. To a shark."

The security guards hesitated, their earpieces silent, their tasers lowered but not holstered. The threat of bankruptcy was a language they understood better than loyalty or honor.

"Put him on speaker," one of the guards said, his voice gruff.

Elena held the phone out. "You heard him."

"Mr. Vane," the guard said. "We have orders from Mr. Hawthorne to secure the subject."

"Mr. Hawthorne is not your client," Silas’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and dangerous. "The Hawthorne Family Trust is your client. And as the executor of that trust's legal affairs, I am informing you that Mrs. Vance-Hawthorne is the primary signatory on the account that pays your salary."

The guards exchanged a look. Doubt crept into their eyes.

"If you touch her," Silas continued, "you are assaulting your employer. Do you want to explain that to a judge? Or do you want to walk away?"

The lead guard lowered his taser. He looked at the shattered mirror, the broken vases, the ruin of the bedroom. Then he looked at Elena.

"We'll wait in the hall," he said.

They backed out, closing the splintered door behind them.

Elena slumped against the vanity, her legs shaking. She raised the phone to her ear.

"They're gone," she whispered.

"Good," Silas said. "Now listen to me carefully, Elena. You have about ten minutes before Marcus overrides me or calls the police himself. You need to get out of there."

"I can't," Elena said. "The house is locked down. The gates are closed."

"There's a service exit in the basement," Silas said. "Through the wine cellar. It leads to the boathouse."

"I know," Elena said. "I used it."

"Then use it again. But this time, don't run. Drive."

"Drive what? My car is in the woods."

"Not your car," Silas said. "My car."

"What?"

"I'm at the gate," Silas said. "I've been trying to get in for twenty minutes. They won't open it. But if you can get to the perimeter wall on the south side, near the old stables, I can get you out."

"Why are you helping me?" Elena asked. "You work for them."

"I worked for Nathaniel," Silas said. "I worked for the legacy. Marcus and Seraphina are destroying it. They're sloppy. They're reckless. And frankly, Elena, you're the only one with the balls to clean up the mess."

"And you want half," Elena reminded him.

"I want the firm to survive," Silas said. "If the Feds seize the assets, I get nothing. If you win, I get my fees. It's a simple calculation."

"Fine," Elena said. "South wall. Ten minutes."

She hung up.

She grabbed a heavy wool coat from the closet—Marcus's coat. It was too big, but it was warm. She wrapped it around herself, hiding the torn dress, the bruises, the evidence of her fight.

She opened the bedroom door.

The guards were standing at the end of the hall. They tensed when they saw her.

"I'm leaving," Elena said, channeling every ounce of CFO authority she had left. "Mr. Vane is waiting for me."

The guards didn't move. They didn't step aside.

"Mr. Hawthorne said no one leaves," the lead guard said.

"Mr. Hawthorne is about to be indicted," Elena said. "Do you want to be listed as accessories?"

The guard hesitated. He looked at his partner. Then he stepped aside.

Elena walked past them. She walked down the hall, down the back stairs, into the kitchen.

It was empty. The staff had fled or were hiding.

She went to the pantry. She pushed aside the wine crates. She opened the hidden door to the tunnel.

It was dark. Cold.

She climbed down.

She ran through the tunnel, her footsteps echoing on the stone. She reached the boathouse. She climbed out.

The lake was frozen, a sheet of black ice under the moon. The wind bit at her face.

She ran along the shoreline, toward the old stables on the south side of the property. The snow was deep here, untouched.

She reached the wall. It was twelve feet high, stone and mortar. Impossible to climb.

"Silas!" she hissed.

"Here," a voice came from the other side.

A rope ladder dropped over the wall.

Elena grabbed it. She climbed, her hands numb, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She reached the top. She looked down.

Silas Vane was standing next to a black sedan. He looked like a funeral director, tall and gaunt in a long coat.

"Jump," he said.

Elena jumped. She landed in the snow, stumbling. Silas caught her arm, steadying her.

"Get in," he said.

She got in the car. It was warm. It smelled of leather and expensive cologne.

Silas got in the driver's seat. He didn't say anything. He just drove.

They sped away from the estate, leaving the lights and the sirens and the madness behind.

"Where are we going?" Elena asked, her teeth chattering.

"My office," Silas said. "It's secure. And it has a shower."

"I need to get Leo," Elena said. "They took him."

"I know," Silas said. "But you can't get him tonight. Not like this. You need a strategy."

"I have a strategy," Elena said. "I'm going to burn them down."

"Fire is messy," Silas said. "We need a scalpel."

He reached into his briefcase on the back seat. He pulled out a file.

"I did some digging," he said. "After you called. About the marriage."

Elena took the file. She opened it.

It wasn't a marriage license. It wasn't a birth certificate.

It was an annulment decree.

Dated 2010.

"They were married," Silas said. "In France. But it was annulled three days later."

"Why?"

"Because," Silas said, "Marcus was already married."

Elena stared at him. "To who?"

"To Seraphina," Silas said.

"I don't understand. You said they were married in France."

"That was the second time," Silas said. "The first time was in Las Vegas. In 2008. Drunken mistake? Or calculated move to secure the trust early?"

He tapped the paper.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that they never legally divorced from the first marriage before the annulment of the second. Which means..."

"Which means they're still married," Elena whispered.

"And it means," Silas said, a shark-like smile spreading across his face, "that your marriage to Marcus is void. You were never his wife."

"But the debt..."

"The debt was incurred by 'Mrs. Marcus Hawthorne'," Silas said. "If there is no Mrs. Marcus Hawthorne, there is no debt. At least, not for you."

"We need to prove it," Elena said. "We need to prove he was never eligible to marry you."

"We will," Silas said. "But first, we need to find the Vegas license."

"Where is it?"

"There's only one person who keeps records that old," Silas said. "And he's not a clerk."

"Who is he?"

"A blackmailer," Silas said. "And he lives in Queens."