Chapter 5 - The Phone Call in the SUV
By 8:45 PM, the two Lincoln Navigators were loaded.
The Peterson brownstone front door sat wide open, letting the freezing November wind blow through their spotless, mahogany-lined foyer. Carol stood on the porch, her face pale, screaming insults into the night, while Frank tried to pull her back inside before the neighbors on the block began peering through their bay windows.
I strapped Lily into her car seat in the back of Zoe’s SUV. She was exhausted, her thumb tucked into her mouth, her eyes heavy as she clutched her stuffed rabbit against her chest.
I climbed into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut. The heavy leather interior was warm, smelling of cedar and espresso. The silence inside the vehicle felt like a sanctuary after the war zone we had just left behind.
Zoe pulled out of the driveway, her tires kicking up a small spray of gravel, and smoothly merged onto the quiet Chicago avenue.
"Where are we going?" I asked, leaning my head against the cold glass window.
"My penthouse on Michigan Avenue," Zoe said, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. "I had the guest suite prepped two hours ago. My housekeeper set up a crib and bought three types of organic juices for Lily."
"Thank you, Zoe," I whispered.
"Don't thank me yet, Chloe," Zoe said, reaching over to tap the screen on her dashboard. "We haven't made the phone call yet."
I looked at the glowing screen. "What phone call?"
Zoe smiled—a dark, triumphant expression. "Did you really think I came to Lincoln Park just to help you pack wardrobes? Leo didn't just pull tax receipts while we were upstairs. He accessed the public registry for Peterson Financial Group."
My heart skipped a beat. Peterson Financial Group was the mid-sized wealth management firm founded by Frank Peterson, where Mark served as Senior Vice President and Megan ran the marketing division. The firm’s prized possession was a fifty-million-dollar portfolio managed for a private syndicate of investors led by one man: Harrison Vance.
My estranged uncle.
Harrison Vance was my father’s older brother—a ruthless, reclusive multi-millionaire real estate tycoon who lived in a compound in Scottsdale, Arizona. He had cut ties with the rest of our family decades ago over a corporate dispute, but he had always kept a silent, watchful eye on me. When I married Mark seven years ago, Harrison had quietly transferred his syndicate's management account to Peterson Financial as a silent, unannounced wedding gift to ensure his niece’s husband would have a guaranteed career path.
Mark and Frank had spent seven years boasting about securing the "Vance Syndicate" account, treating it as proof of their brilliant financial acumen. They had no idea Harrison Vance was my uncle. They thought he was just a wealthy client who happened to share my maiden name.
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"Call him, Chloe," Zoe said softly. "It's 7:00 PM in Arizona. He's sitting on his patio having scotch."
I picked up my phone, unarchived a contact I hadn't dialed in four years, and hit call.
