Chapter 9: The Room Beneath the Warehouse
The blood in the vehicle did not belong to Sophie.
It belonged to the hospital officer Preston had attacked while escaping.
That fact allowed me to breathe again.
But Sophie was still missing.
Police entered the warehouse while firefighters fought the flames from the rear.
The fire had started in the accounting archive.
It was deliberate.
Rows of financial records had been covered in accelerant.
But Preston had made one mistake.
He started the fire on the third floor.
The basement remained untouched.
A detective found a hidden elevator behind a movable storage shelf.
It led below ground.
Inside the basement were six locked rooms.
The first contained servers.
The second held boxes of company contracts.
The third was filled with passports, burner phones, and stacks of cash.
The fourth contained surveillance equipment.
The fifth held my missing laptop.
The sixth room was empty except for a chair and a video camera.
Sophie’s white ribbon lay on the floor.
I stared through the doorway.
“He brought her here.”
Maya crouched beside the ribbon.
“It could have been placed here to frighten you.”
“It’s hers.”
“I know.”
An officer examined the basement security system.
“There’s recent footage.”
The monitor showed Preston bringing Sophie into the basement.
She was wrapped in the hospital blanket.
He sat her in the chair and gave her water.
There was no sound, but he appeared to be speaking calmly.
Twenty minutes later, someone else entered.
My father.
The timestamp showed that Martin had reached the warehouse before returning to the family estate to create the police decoy.
On the screen, my father grabbed Preston by the jacket.
They argued.
Preston pointed toward Sophie.
My father struck him.
Then my father pulled Sophie from the chair and took her through another door.
Preston followed.
The camera feed ended.
“Where does that door lead?” Maya asked.
The warehouse manager studied the floor plan.
“It shouldn’t lead anywhere. That wall is below the railroad yard.”
Police broke through the door.
Behind it was an old freight tunnel.
The tunnel ran beneath the tracks and opened almost half a mile away beside the Chicago River.
Tire marks led from the tunnel exit.
My father had moved Sophie again.
Preston’s location remained unknown.
In the server room, investigators recovered thousands of financial records.
The files proved Preston had transferred charitable funds into shell companies.
But the authorization codes belonged to my father.
Martin had approved every transaction.
Preston had stolen the money.
My father had designed the system that allowed him to do it.
Then a technician opened a video file recorded three months earlier.
My parents sat inside the warehouse office.
Preston stood across from them.
My mother placed a document on the table.
It was my forged share-transfer agreement.
My father spoke clearly.
“If Evelyn refuses to sign, we’ll make sure no court considers her credible.”
Preston asked, “How?”
My mother answered.
“We’ll start with the child.”
Before the video ended, my father added one final instruction.
“And if that doesn’t work, we use what happened to Evelyn’s husband.”
My blood turned cold.
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My husband, David, had died four years earlier in what police called a highway accident.
Until that moment, I had never questioned it.
