Chapter 7 - The Drive to the Coast7
The drive down I-40 East toward Wilmington took just over two hours. The asphalt ribbon cut through the flat, pine-studded plains of eastern North Carolina under a vast, cloudless autumn sky.
I sat in the passenger seat of my father’s Lincoln Navigator, watching the landscape shift from the rolling hills and suburban developments of the Triangle to the swampy cypress swamps and salt marshes of the coastal plain. My father drove with quiet, steady concentration, both hands resting firmly at the ten-and-two position on the leather steering wheel.
“You’re awfully quiet, baby,” my father said softly, glancing over at me as we passed a green highway sign indicating we were thirty miles outside Wilmington.
“I was just thinking about the last time I drove down this highway,” I replied, looking out the window at the endless rows of loblolly pines flashing by. “Two years ago. Grantham told me he had to drive out to the coast for a weekend architectural seminar on coastal preservation codes. He stayed at a boutique bed and breakfast in downtown Wilmington and sent me photos of the Cape Fear River at sunset.”
“Did you ever see the receipts for that hotel?” my father asked.
“No,” I said bitterly. “He told me the seminar organizers comped the room and board.”
“Nothing in this world is ever truly comped, Cassandra,” my father said, his voice dry. “Especially not when it involves a man trying to maintain two separate domestic economies on his wife’s dime.”
We pulled into downtown Wilmington just before noon. The historic district was a picturesque tapestry of cobblestone streets, moss-draped live oaks, and brightly painted nineteenth-century brick storefronts lining the banks of the sluggish, tea-colored Cape Fear River. Tourists strolled along the Riverwalk, stopping to admire the antique shops and seafood restaurants, completely unaware of the legal detonation about to take place a few blocks away in Barnaby Coyle’s Wilmington affiliate office.
We parked behind a brick office building on Front Street. Barnaby was already waiting for us on the sidewalk, holding a thick manila accordion folder tucked under his arm.
“She’s here,” Barnaby said by way of greeting as my father and I walked up the stone steps. “Evelyn arrived ten minutes ago with her own attorney—a shark from a downtown Wilmington firm named Marcus Vance, no relation, though I wouldn't be surprised if they shared a bloodline.”
“Is she nervous?” I asked, adjusting the collar of my charcoal wool coat.
“She’s terrified,” Barnaby replied, a grim smile touching his lips. “Because when my investigator served her with the subpoena yesterday, we didn't just include the bank records. We included copies of the forged corporate resolutions bearing Grantham’s handwriting and the expired notary stamp. Evelyn realized very quickly that Grantham set her up to take the fall if federal investigators started looking into where the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars came from.”
We walked through the glass double doors into a sunlit conference room overlooking the river.
Sitting at the far end of the long oak table was Evelyn Vance.
In person, she looked slightly older than she did in her professional photograph, though her ash-blonde hair was still impeccably styled and her cream-colored blazer was tailored to perfection. But the composure she had projected on her website was completely gone. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, her knuckles white, and her eyes darted nervously toward the door as we entered.
Standing beside her was a tall, silver-haired man in a sharp charcoal suit who introduced himself as Marcus Vance.
“Mr. Coyle,” Marcus said, nodding stiffly as Barnaby pulled out his chair. “Before we begin this deposition on the record, my client wants to make one thing crystal clear: Evelyn Vance had no knowledge of any fraudulent wire transfers or forged signatures originating from Mr. Grantham Thorn.”
Barnaby didn't even sit down yet. He laid his accordion folder flat on the table, opened the brass clasp, and pulled out a single sheet of paper, sliding it across the polished wood toward Evelyn’s attorney.
“That’s fascinating, counselor,” Barnaby said smoothly, his voice carrying the calm authority of a seasoned litigator. “Because according to these wire confirmation receipts signed by Ms. Vance herself, every single dollar transferred from Cassandra Thorn’s account went directly into a operating ledger where Ms. Vance was the sole authorized signatory for the past forty-eight months.”
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Evelyn flinched as if she had been struck. She looked down at the paper, then raised her eyes slowly to meet mine across the table.
For the first time in four years, I was looking directly at the woman my husband had chosen over our marriage, our family, and our shared life. And as I held her gaze, I saw the exact moment the illusion shattered.
