Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
The rain had cleared by sunrise, leaving the suburban neighborhood glistening under a bright, unforgiving morning sun.
According to Marcus’s intelligence network, Diane was currently meeting with her primary estate lawyer in downtown Boston to execute emergency paperwork regarding the trust transfer. She assumed we were too panicked, distracted, and exhausted to fight back.
She was dead wrong.
At 10:00 AM sharp, Michael and I—flanked by Marcus Vance and his imposing security detail—walked into the sleek glass-and-steel lobby of Vance & Sterling Legal Associates on Boylston Street.
The receptionist at the front desk looked up, her professional smile faltering immediately when she recognized Marcus.
"Mr. Vance," she stammered, standing up so fast her chair squeaked. "We weren't expecting you today. Shall I notify senior partner—"
"Don't bother, Sarah," Marcus cut across her smoothly, walking straight toward the private executive elevators with us right behind him. "We’re here for Diane Vance’s deposition."
As we stepped out on the penthouse floor, the double doors of the boardroom swung open.
Diane was sitting at the head of the polished mahogany table, flanked by her high-priced corporate defense attorney, a sleek man in a tailored gray suit named Arthur Sterling. Papers were spread everywhere.
When Diane saw us walk in—led by Marcus Vance, no less—the color drained completely from her face.
"Michael? Emily?" Diane stammered, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the hardwood. "What is the meaning of this? How did you get in here?"
"Sit down, Diane," Marcus commanded, his voice carrying the absolute weight of a multi-billion-dollar empire. He pulled out a chair for me, then sat down directly across from her.
Sterling, the corporate attorney, adjusted his glasses nervously, looking between Diane and Marcus. "Mr. Vance, I represent Mrs. Vance in all estate matters. If you have grievances regarding—"
"Shut up, Sterling," Marcus interrupted without even looking at him. He slid a thick manila folder across the table, stopping it right in front of Diane. "Open it."
Diane’s trembling fingers reached out. She flipped open the folder.
Inside were full-color forensic lab reports confirming the exact chemical composition of the peanut oil concentrate found in her handbag, cross-referenced with her own fingerprints lifted from the container. Beneath that were bank statements showing wire transfers to a disgraced former hospital administrator in upstate New York—the same administrator who had once helped cover up medical files for the Vance family decades ago.
"This... this is fabricated!" Diane shrieked, slamming the folder shut, though her voice cracked with sheer panic. "They're trying to frame me! They want my money!"
"It’s not fabricated, Diane," a calm, chilling voice spoke from the doorway.
We all turned. Stepping into the boardroom was Detective Miller of the local precinct, accompanied by two uniformed officers.
Detective Miller held up a pair of polished steel handcuffs.
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"Diane Vance," the detective said, his voice echoing in the silent room. "You are under arrest for attempted premeditated homicide, child endangerment, and wire fraud."
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