Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Corporate Office-7
At 4:30 PM, the rain returned to Charlotte, drumming a heavy, rhythmic cadence against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Prescott North Creative’s downtown corporate office.
The building was a sleek, glass-and-steel structure in the heart of the financial district—a building Dean had leased three years ago using my firm’s corporate credit backing to project an image of untouchable success.
Today, the glass doors were locked. Two marked police cruisers sat in the loading bay below, and inside the third-floor executive suite, federal forensic accountants were systematically tagging server racks and filing cabinets with yellow evidence seals.
I walked through the empty open-plan office space, my leather boots clicking sharply against the polished concrete floorboards. Beside me walked Arthur Pendelton and my sister, Clara, who had driven down from the lake house to take care of Oliver while I finalized the legal filings.
“The receivership is complete, Natalie,” Arthur reported, checking off items on a digital tablet. “Every lease, every hardware asset, and every intellectual property patent registered under Prescott North Creative has been seized under the federal civil forfeiture order. By tomorrow morning, the firm will officially cease to exist.”
Clara looked around the high-end office, her eyes filled with disgust as she spotted a framed magazine cover on the wall featuring Dean’s face under the headline: CHARLOTTE’S TOP 40 UNDER 40 VISIONARIES.
“He built all of this on your father’s blood,” Clara whispered, her knuckles white against her purse strap. “Every chair, every desk, every glass wall.”
“He built it on a loan he thought he’d never have to repay,” I corrected quietly, walking up to Dean’s massive corner desk overlooking the city skyline.
On the desk sat a framed photograph of our family—taken three years ago at a beach house in the Outer Banks. Dean was smiling warmly, his arm around my waist, while a three-year-old Oliver sat on his shoulders laughing.
I picked up the frame. For a long moment, I looked at Dean’s face in the photograph, searching for any sign, any hint of the monster hiding behind those warm blue eyes. There was nothing. Just a handsome, ordinary man smiling for a camera, pretending to be a father while carrying the secret of a murder in his heart.
I turned the frame over, unlatched the back panel, and pulled out the photograph.
Behind the photo, tucked flat against the cardboard backing, was a small, silver micro-SD card—a hidden storage drive Dean had placed there years ago, assuming no one would ever disassemble his family portrait.
“Arthur,” I said, handing the micro-card to my attorney. “Have the cyber-forensics team extract the files on this drive immediately.”
Ten minutes later, Arthur inserted the drive into his secure laptop.
The screen lit up with a directory containing over forty audio recordings—calls automatically recorded by an app Dean had installed on his personal mobile device between 2016 and 2018.
Arthur clicked on a file dated September 12, 2017—the night before my father died.
The audio played through the laptop speakers, crystal clear and terrifyingly crisp:
"Walter, the compound is dissolved in his evening whiskey," Dean’s voice spoke through the speaker, calm, casual, completely devoid of emotion. "He didn't notice a thing. He’s already complaining of feeling lightheaded. I’m leaving his house now. Make sure the private coroner is standing by in Virginia to handle the body before her family asks for an autopsy."
"Good work, son," Walter’s voice answered. "The land rights will clear probate by November. Make sure Natalie stays close to you. Don't let her talk to her father's corporate lawyers."
"She trusts me completely," Dean replied with a quiet laugh. "She thinks I'm her hero."
Clara covered her mouth, letting out a stifled sob of horror.
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I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I reached out, closed the laptop screen, and looked out at the rain washing over the city glass.
“Deliver that recording to Prosecutor Vance,” I said softly. “Tell him he doesn't need to negotiate a plea deal with Dean Prescott. He can prepare the capital indictment tonight.”
