Chapter 6 - The Trap Springs Shut
By 10:00 a.m., the war room at Vance & Sterling Corporate Litigation looked less like a law office and more like a tactical command center.
Spread across the massive mahogany conference table were forensic printouts, bank statements, medical board compliance files, and high-resolution stills from the nursery camera footage.
Marcus Vance stood at the head of the table, clicking through slides on a wall-mounted monitor, while three senior partners and a state medical board investigator took notes.
“The timing couldn't be more devastating for Dr. Alana Vance,” the investigator said, adjusting his glasses as he looked at a digital ledger. “We executed an emergency subpoena on her private clinic network thirty minutes ago. Not only did we recover the prescription logs matching the synthetic barbiturates found in the pill bottle, but we also found wire transfers totaling two hundred and fifty thousand dollars originating from an offshore holding account tied directly to Nicholas Hale.”
Marcus turned to look at me where I sat near the window, cradling a sleeping Julian in my arms.
“The state medical board has already issued an immediate, emergency suspension of Dr. Vance’s medical license,” Marcus reported smoothly. “She’s currently sitting in an interrogation room downtown with our lead counsel, realizing that her multi-million-dollar career just went up in smoke because she tried to help a narcissistic banker commit insurance and custody fraud.”
“And Nicholas?” I asked calmly.
Marcus smiled—a cold, razor-sharp expression.
“Nicholas just received a formal emergency summons served by two federal marshals at his corporate office board meeting,” Marcus said. “Along with a temporary restraining order, an immediate asset freeze on all personal and joint accounts, and a multi-million-dollar civil lawsuit for intentional infliction of emotional distress, medical tampering, and attempted custodial abduction.”
Right on cue, my cell phone—resting on the conference table—buzzed violently.
The screen lit up with Nicholas’s name.
“Nicholas Hale calling...”
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
Marcus looked down at the screen, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want to answer it?”
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I shook my head slowly, reaching out and tapping the red button to silence the call, sending it straight to voicemail.
“No, Marcus,” I said softly, looking down at my son, who yawned and stretched out his tiny arms in his sleep. “Let him talk to the federal marshals. I’m done listening to his voice.”
