Chapter 9 - The Long Flight North
The tires of the armored black SUV hissed against the wet asphalt as we crossed the George Washington Bridge, leaving the gleaming towers of Manhattan behind us in a haze of gray fog and falling sleet.
In the back seat, Chloe was wrapped in a cashmere blanket, sound asleep, clutching a plush toy James had bought for her at the hotel gift shop. Her little chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm, mercifully unaware that her mother was now a fugitive wanted for corporate conspiracy and felony wire fraud.
Frank, James’s veteran driver, kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. He was a retired marine with graying hair and hands that rested with practiced calm on the steering wheel.
"Nobody's following us, Miss Miller," Frank said in a low, gravelly voice. "We took the freight tunnels under the meatpacking district. Mr. Whitmore knows how to disappear when he needs to."
I clutched my knees to my chest, my mind spinning at a thousand miles an hour. Every radio report on the news stations had the same breaking alert:
“...Scandal at Whitmore Enterprises this afternoon as CEO James Whitmore is under fire following allegations of aiding and abetting a fugitive. Former employee Grace Miller, wanted in connection with an interstate wire fraud scheme involving over three hundred thousand dollars, fled the corporate headquarters minutes before NYPD officers could execute an arrest warrant...”
They were painting me as a con artist. A femme fatale who had manipulated a billionaire boss into sheltering her from the law. David’s lies had been polished to perfection by Victoria’s legal team.
I pulled out the burner phone Frank had handed me. A single encrypted text message lit up the small screen:
[James]: Arthur called an emergency press conference for tomorrow morning. He’s going to demand the board strip my voting shares. Don't worry about me. Chloe is safe, and that’s all that matters. Stay at the cabin. Frank knows the codes. I am finding David.
I stared at the glowing letters. I am finding David.
James was putting his entire life, his fortune, and his freedom on the line for me. If he was caught interfering with an active investigation, Arthur would see him behind bars alongside me. I couldn't let him burn to the ground to keep me warm.
Three hours later, the SUV turned off a remote mountain highway into a winding gravel driveway blanketed in deep snow. Nestled among towering hemlocks and frozen pines sat a breathtaking modern lodge built of cedar, stone, and massive glass windows.
Frank pulled into the heated garage, the automated doors closing behind us like a fortress wall.
"You're safe here, Miss Miller," Frank said, turning off the engine. "The perimeter has motion sensors, the pantry is stocked for a month, and the satellite connection is fully encrypted. I’ll be staying in the guest quarters over the garage."
I carried a drowsy Chloe inside. The interior of the cabin was warm, smelling of cedarwood and dried lavender. A massive stone fireplace dominated the living room, and soft sheepskin rugs covered the wide-plank oak floors. It was a sanctuary, a paradise far removed from the cold streets where we had struggled just a week ago.
After tucking Chloe into a huge king-sized bed beneath a down comforter, I walked into the kitchen and sat at the granite island with the laptop James had sent with Frank.
I opened the encrypted terminal. I wasn't going to sit here and hide like a scared rabbit while James fought my battles.
David was a coward. I had lived with him for four years; I knew his habits, his weaknesses, and his vices. He had always been an impulsive gambler who couldn't resist bragging when he thought he had won. If Victoria Vance had paid him to sign that affidavit, he hadn't left town. He was in New York, spending that blood money.
I logged into an old, forgotten cloud account we had shared during our marriage—an account linked to David's old loyalty cards, rideshare apps, and digital wallets.
For two hours, I traced digital breadcrumbs across Manhattan. Most of the accounts were dead, cancelled due to overdue balances. But then, at 11:42 PM, a new notification pinged on an old sports-betting app David used to obsess over.
A new bank card had been linked to his profile.
The card was issued by Vance Commercial Bank. And the billing address was registered to a luxury penthouse suite at The Monarch Hotel in Atlantic City.
My breath hitched. David wasn't hiding in some dark alley. He was living like a king on hush money paid by the Vance family, waiting for the dust to settle.
I grabbed the burner phone and dialed James’s private number. It rang once before he picked up.
"Grace? Are you alright? Is Chloe okay?" His voice sounded strained, exhausted, but filled with desperate concern.
"James, listen to me," I said, my words coming fast and sharp. "I found David. He’s in Atlantic City at The Monarch Hotel. Victoria put him up there under a Vance corporate account. The paper trail links her family directly to his payoff."
There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. When James spoke again, his voice was deadly calm.
"Frank told me you were brilliant. Pack a small bag for tomorrow morning, Grace. We're going to New Jersey."
"We?" I asked. "James, the police are looking for me! You can't come here!"
"Look out the front window," James murmured.
May you like
I froze. I stood up, walked to the towering living room window, and pulled back the curtain.
Headlights cut through the falling snow on the winding mountain driveway. A sleek black Audi sedan pulled up beside the garage. The driver’s door opened, and James stepped out into the freezing night, his coat collar turned up against the storm, looking up directly at the window where I stood.
