Chapter 4 - THE GHOST OF THE PENTHOUSE
-4
The rain in Manhattan on Thursday night fell in heavy, relentless sheets, washing the neon-lit asphalt of Fifth Avenue in shimmering reflections of red and white taillights. The sleek black town car dropped me off three blocks away from the towering glass-and-steel residential skyscraper where the Weston penthouse occupied the entire top two floors.
I pulled the hood of my dark wool trench coat low over my face, stepping briskly through the chilly drizzle, clutching a small, specialized USB data-siphon device Claire had couriered to the farmhouse earlier that morning. My stomach was a tight, painful knot of anxiety, every kick from the baby inside serving as a sharp, rhythmic reminder of why I was taking this insane, terrifying gamble.
The security doorman at the front lobby desk was a new face—a young man scrolling mindlessly through his phone, completely paying no attention to the stream of residents entering through the automated glass revolving doors. I kept my head down, bypassed the front desk with a casual, practiced wave as if I belonged there, and slipped directly into the private, biometric-secured elevator bank.
I pressed my thumb against the glass scanner.
Beep.
Access Granted. Penthouse Level.
The private elevator lurated upward with smooth, sickening speed, the digital floor numbers flashing past in bright red LED: 45, 50, 55, 60...
My palms were slick with sweat as I wiped them against the fabric of my trousers. The elevator chimed softly, and the polished brass doors slid open directly into the private foyer of the penthouse.
The contrast between the bright, sterile luxury of the apartment and the dark, heavy silence hanging in the air was jarring. The massive crystal chandelier in the entryway was dimmed, casting long, dramatic shadows across the white marble floors. The apartment smelled faintly of expensive cologne, fresh cut lilies, and the lingering trace of Lila Summers’s cloying jasmine perfume—a scent that seemed to have permanently embedded itself into the upholstery.
I moved with absolute stealth, my soft-soled boots making zero sound against the marble.
Andrew’s home office was located down the eastern corridor, past the formal dining room and the private library. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm amber light spilling out onto the hallway floor.
I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. Is someone here?
I pressed my back against the wall beside the door frame, holding my breath, straining my ears to listen. Faint, muffled sounds drifted out from the office—the click of a computer mouse, the rustle of paper, and a low, irritated sigh.
It wasn't a security guard. It was Andrew.
He’s supposed to be at the Drake Hotel charity dinner with Lila, my mind raced, panic threatening to paralyze my limbs. Why is he back here?
I peeked cautiously around the edge of the door frame.
Andrew sat behind his massive, custom-built mahogany desk, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor, his tie yanked loose around his neck. He was furiously typing on his laptop, muttering obscenities under his breath while glancing anxiously at his cell phone resting beside the keyboard.
"Damn it, Elena," Andrew muttered aloud to the empty room, rubbing his temples in frustration. "Where the hell are you hiding? If you think ignoring my calls is going to stop the subpoena, you're out of your mind."
He stood up abruptly, grabbing a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the side table, taking a long, hard swallow. Then, he walked directly toward the oil painting hanging on the far wall—the portrait of a sweeping Manhattan skyline that concealed the heavy, digital wall-safe behind it.
My breath caught. If he opened the safe right now, if he checked the contents before I could download the server files, I would be caught red-handed.
Instead, Andrew’s phone buzzed aggressively on the desk. He stopped mid-stride, swore loudly, turned around, and bolted back toward the desk to answer the call, leaving the safe securely locked and untouched.
"Lila, I told you not to call me on this line while I'm at the apartment," Andrew snapped into the phone, his voice carrying clearly across the room as he paced back and forth near the desk. "Yes, the gala was a disaster thanks to my stubborn wife, but the lawyers are handling the damage control... No, we can't talk about the Cayman transfers over the phone, are you out of your mind?!"
This was my window. While his back was turned, while he was distracted by his panicked mistress on the encrypted line, I had less than sixty seconds to move.
I slipped into the office like a ghost, moving with sudden, desperate speed. I reached the oil painting, swung it open on its concealed hinges, and stared at the heavy digital keypad of the wall safe.
My fingers flew across the buttons, punching in the six-digit master combination I had memorized during our first year of marriage—our anniversary date.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Clack.
The heavy steel door of the safe popped open.
Inside sat a small, black cryptographic hard drive—the master backup server for Andrew’s private communications.
I yanked the drive out of its dock, pulled Claire’s USB data-siphon device from my pocket, plugged it into the secondary port to initiate an automated cloud backup mirror just in case, and grabbed a stack of physical paper folders containing the notarized notary logs for Vanguard Capital.
"Yeah, I'm taking care of it," Andrew’s voice barked into the phone just ten feet away, his footsteps suddenly shifting toward the back of the room. "I'm going to check the safe right now to make sure the backup ledger is secure, and then—"
Andrew stopped dead in his tracks.
The office went completely, terrifyingly silent.
May you like
I slowly turned around, holding the black hard drive in my right hand, standing right in front of the open wall safe with the door wide open.
Andrew stared at me, his face draining of all color, his phone slipping from his loosened grip and clattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp, plastic crash.
