Chapter 7 - Dawn in Dupont Circle
Dawn broke over Washington not with sunshine, but with a dull, leaden slate of gray clouds that promised heavy snow by midday.
By seven in the morning, the aroma of cinnamon pancakes and sizzling bacon filled Rachel’s penthouse kitchen. Chloe sat at the marble island, her eyes bright and round, clutching a massive plush bear that Rachel had produced from her holiday storage closet.
The dark welt on Chloe's cheek had deepened into an ugly plum shade, the edges yellowish and angry, but she was smiling.
"Mommy," Chloe asked, dipping a fork into maple syrup, "are we going back to Grandma’s house today?"
I set down my coffee, walked over, and knelt beside her stool so our eyes were level. I took her small, warm hands in mine.
"No, sweetheart," I said, keeping my voice gentle, steady, and filled with certainty. "We are never going back to Grandma’s house."
Chloe looked down at her plate, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Did I make Aunt Jillian mad because of the turkey?"
"Chloe, listen to me," I commanded softly, lifting her chin with my thumb so she had to look directly into my eyes. "Aunt Jillian made a terrible, cruel choice. You did nothing wrong. You are smart, you are sweet, and you are good. Nobody—not Aunt Jillian, not Daddy, not anybody in this whole world—is ever allowed to hurt you. Mommy took care of it. Do you understand me? Mommy is taking care of everything."
Chloe stared at me for three long heartbeats, searching my face with that terrifyingly perceptive intuition children possess. Then, she threw her arms around my neck, burying her face into my collarbone.
"I love you, Mommy," she whispered.
"I love you more than the sky, baby," I murmured, holding her so tightly I could feel the rapid, bird-like thump of her heart against my chest.
At seven-thirty, my phone began to vibrate on the granite counter.
It didn't ring once. It vibrated continuously, a relentless, frantic buzzing that marched across the stone like an angry hornet.
Rachel, wearing a silk dressing gown with her hair tied back in an elegant knot, picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, and showed it to me.
*MARGARET PRESCOTT - CALLING (14 MISSED CALLS)*
*JILLIAN PRESCOTT - CALLING (9 MISSED CALLS)*
*UNKNOWN CALLER - CALLING (6 MISSED CALLS)*
"Do you want me to block them?" Rachel asked.
"No," I said, standing up and smoothing down the front of my sweater. "Put it on speaker."
Rachel tapped the green icon and set the phone between our coffee mugs.
The second the call connected, Margaret’s shrill, breathy voice blasted through the speaker, bordering on total hysteria.
*"Vanessa! Vanessa, you vindictive, psychotic bitch! Answer this phone right now!"*
Background noises leaked through—the hollow, cavernous echo of bare walls, the howling of the winter wind rattling through uninsulated single-pane Federal glass, and Jillian sobbing violently in the background.
*"The power is off!"* Margaret shrieked, her voice cracking with pure venom. *"Do you hear me? The radiators are ice cold! The pipes are going to burst! There isn't a single chair in this house! There isn't a blanket! And two tow trucks just backed into my driveway and took the Mercedes and my Jaguar! They took my car, Vanessa! On Christmas morning!"*
I picked up my mug, took a slow, deliberate sip of hot coffee, and spoke in a clear, measured cadence.
"Good morning, Margaret. Merry Christmas."
A strangled gasp came over the line. *"You... you had Derek arrested! He spent the night in a cage with criminals! He hasn't had his blood pressure medication! His lawyer called the precinct, but they said it's a federal hold! What did you tell those police officers?!"*
"I didn't tell them anything, Margaret," I replied, my tone devoid of emotion. "The certified bank records spoke for themselves. Derek committed three counts of federal wire fraud and aggravated identity theft. He forged my signature on a $2.2 million secondary mortgage, and then he lost your family’s stolen money on commodities."
Silence fell over the line. For five straight seconds, the only sound was the distant wind howling through O Street.
Then, Jillian’s voice shrieked from the background, muffled but raw with panic: *"Mother, tell her to drop the charges against me! The police left a summons on the front door! Child abuse? I am a Prescott! I will not be booked like a common street thug!"*
"You struck a five-year-old child in the face, Jillian," I said, my voice dropping an octave, cold and razor-sharp. "The photographs are already in the hands of the Assistant United States Attorney and the Child Protection Division. You aren't just getting booked. You are getting prosecuted to the maximum extent of the law. If you come within five hundred feet of Chloe, the magistrate will issue a bench warrant for your immediate arrest."
*"You listen to me, you ungrateful little secretary!"* Margaret roared, her veneer of Georgetown breeding entirely shattered into raw, aristocratic rage. *"Everything you have, you owe to this family! Derek elevated you! We gave you a name! We gave you an entry into society! And you think you can kick us out of our own ancestral home? Arthur built that house! My great-grandfather laid the bricks of that courtyard! We will bury you in court! Victoria Ashworth is already drafting an emergency injunction! By noon, the judge will throw you out of our lives and give Derek full custody of that child!"*
I let out a soft, pitying laugh that made Margaret choke on her own breath.
"Margaret," I said quietly. "Arthur didn't build that house. He inherited it, mortgaged it to the hilt, and died leaving you three months away from a sheriff's auction. I bought that house for $3.8 million in cash through Mercer Crest Holdings four years ago. I have the deed. I have the canceled checks. And as of midnight, your license to occupy has been legally terminated."
*"It’s a Prescott home!"* she screamed.
"It’s an empty brick box, Margaret. And right now, the temperature inside is dropping to forty degrees. I suggest you call a cab, because your Jaguar is currently sitting in a secured commercial impound yard in Anacostia. And as for Victoria Ashworth..."
I paused, letting the silence stretch until I could hear Margaret’s ragged, shallow breathing.
"...tell Victoria I’ll see her in court. Because her name is on the Swiss equity pledge. And by Tuesday, she won't be practicing law in the District of Columbia. She’ll be defending her own license before the Bar ethics committee."
*"You wouldn't dare—"*
I tapped the red button.
The call disconnected.
The kitchen fell dead silent. Rachel looked at me, a slow, approving smile curling the corners of her mouth. Marcus, sitting with his tablet, looked up with an expression that bordered on reverent awe.
"The impound fees on the vehicles are already accumulating," Marcus noted dryly. "And Frank confirmed both cars were secured without incident. The Georgetown house is completely barren. No furniture, no art, no vehicles, and no utilities."
"What about Derek's arraignment?" I asked.
"Ten o’clock at the E. Barrett Prettyman United States Courthouse," Rachel said, checking her watch. "Room 4100. Magistrate Judge Evelyn Sterling presiding."
Rachel froze. She looked down at the paper, then snapped her head toward Marcus.
"Sterling?" Rachel muttered. "Judge Evelyn *Sterling*?"
Marcus’s face darkened instantly. "The Ashworth firm was founded as Ashworth & Sterling. Judge Sterling’s late husband was Victoria Ashworth’s uncle."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"They already knew," I said, the realization hitting me like a splash of ice water. "They maneuvered the preliminary magistrate assignment before Derek was even processed. Victoria Ashworth is already inside the courthouse."
Rachel grabbed her coat from the back of the chair. "Elena! Pack Chloe’s bag. We’re moving her to a secure private suite at the Willard under my corporate account. Vanessa, get your coat."
"Where are we going?" I asked.
May you like
Rachel’s eyes flashed with lethal professional intensity. "We’re going to the federal courthouse. And we’re going to make sure Victoria Ashworth learns what happens when she tries to rig a courtroom against Rachel Croft."
***
