Chapter 4: The Bluff
For an agonizing forty-five minutes, the two police officers tore through Claire’s apartment. They pulled out couch cushions, emptied dresser drawers, and sifted through the bathroom vanity. Brenda Vance stood in the center of the living room, observing Claire with cold, clinical eyes.
Claire focused on her breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. She had to look bored. She had to look like a woman who had nothing to hide.
One of the officers walked into the kitchen. Claire watched out of the corner of her eye as he opened the cabinets. He moved the cereal boxes. He picked up the sugar jar. He placed his hand on the ceramic lid of the flour canister.
Claire didn't blink. She held her breath, praying her face betrayed nothing.
The officer lifted the lid, peered inside at the white powder, and put the lid back on.
"Kitchen is clear," he called out.
Claire exhaled slowly through her nose.
Twenty minutes later, the officers stood by the front door, looking apologetic. "Nothing here, Ms. Vance," the taller officer said.
Brenda’s confident facade cracked, just a fraction. She frowned, snapping her binder shut. "Very well. But this investigation remains open, Mrs. Hale. I will be speaking to Sophie's school tomorrow, and we will require you to submit to a psychological evaluation by the end of the week. If you attempt to leave the state, a warrant will be issued for your arrest."
"I'm not going anywhere," Claire said, opening the door for them. "And when you speak to Eleanor Hale again, give her a message for me."
Brenda paused at the threshold. "What message?"
"Tell her that David kept meticulous records. And tell her I know where he hid them."
It was a complete bluff. Claire had no idea if David had kept records, but based on Thomas's panicked phone call, David had known something dangerous. She needed Eleanor to go on the defensive.
Brenda gave her a strange look and walked out.
When the door clicked shut, Claire locked the deadbolt and slid down the wood, resting her head against her knees. She was shaking again. The Hales had weaponized the police and CPS in a matter of hours. They were playing chess, and Claire had just barely dodged checkmate.
She walked back to the kitchen, dug the Ziploc bag out of the flour, and rinsed the powder off the plastic. She needed to get this bracelet out of the apartment. She needed a safe place, and she needed an ally.
She pulled out her laptop and opened a secure, encrypted browser. Before David died, he had given her a name. It was during an argument they had had about his family, just days before the crash. David had been drinking, stressed out of his mind.
“If anything ever happens to me, Claire,” he had slurred, gripping her arms too tight, “Don't trust my mother. Don't trust the family lawyer. You find Marcus Thorne. He owes me his life.”
Claire typed the name into the search engine.
Marcus Thorne. Disbarred attorney. Ex-convict.
He lived in a rundown neighborhood on the edge of the city. He had done three years in federal prison for embezzlement—a charge, Claire read in an old article, that was heavily tied to the Hale Investment Firm. Marcus had taken the fall.
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Claire looked at the clock. 11:30 PM.
She packed a small overnight bag, woke a groggy Sophie, and carried her down the fire escape stairs in the back of the building to avoid anyone watching the front entrance. They were going to pay Marcus Thorne a midnight visit.
