Chapter 5 - The Honeymoon Suitcase
By 1:12 a.m., Detective Ortiz knew about Madison’s message.
By 1:19, officers were back at the Whitmore Hotel.
By 1:26, they found the honeymoon suitcase.
Madison was not in the room.
Neither was Preston.
The suitcase sat beneath the window.
Locked.
Detective Ortiz called me from the hotel.
“We have it.”
“What about Madison?”
“Still looking.”
“Preston?”
“Same.”
I paced beside Sophie’s bed.
The doctor had told me she needed rest.
I needed movement.
“Open the suitcase.”
“We need proper authorization.”
“Detective.”
“I know.”
Her voice softened.
“I know.”
Michael was still with me.
He had been making calls for nearly an hour.
Not to my father.
Not to the firm.
To attorneys outside Chicago.
People he trusted.
Or claimed to trust.
I no longer trusted anyone easily.
Ortiz returned to the call.
“We also found the laptop bag Madison mentioned.”
“And the folder?”
“Not there.”
“She copied it.”
“Good.”
“If she still has her phone.”
That sentence landed heavily.
I stopped pacing.
“You think she’s in danger?”
“I think your brother is actively avoiding police.”
“That concerns me.”
I looked through the hospital window.
Down below, headlights moved through the city.
Somewhere out there, Preston was running.
The man who had spent his entire life surrounded by people willing to clean up his messes had finally encountered a mess too large to hide.
Michael spoke quietly.
“Ask her whether Richard’s car is still at the hotel.”
I relayed the question.
Ortiz paused.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“When did he leave?”
“Thirty minutes ago.”
“With my mother?”
“No.”
“Alone?”
“We’re checking footage.”
Michael shook his head.
“Richard wouldn’t run.”
“What does that mean?”
“He thinks he can still fix this.”
I stared at him.
“How?”
“Documents.”
“Witnesses.”
“Money.”
“Leverage.”
“He has spent forty years convincing people that reality is negotiable.”
My phone buzzed.
Another unknown number.
This time it was a call.
I answered.
“Hello?”
No one spoke.
Then I heard breathing.
“Madison?”
A whisper.
“Yes.”
I turned away from Sophie’s bed.
“Where are you?”
“In a bathroom.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Preston took me out of the hotel.”
My blood turned cold.
“Against your will?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“He said we had to leave because the police were twisting everything.”
“Where is he now?”
“Downstairs.”
“Downstairs where?”
“A house.”
“Whose house?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at Michael.
He immediately began writing on a notepad.
“Describe it.”
I said.
Madison whispered quickly.
“Big.”
“Old.”
“Brick.”
“There’s a lake nearby.”
“Maybe north of the city.”
“Can you see a street sign?”
“No.”
“Can you share your location?”
“He took my phone.”
I frowned.
“You’re calling me from it.”
“No.”
“This is a second phone.”
“One Preston doesn’t know I have.”
Smart.
“Madison, listen carefully.”
“You need to stay calm.”
“I am calm.”
Her voice cracked.
“I’m also married to a psychopath.”
I said nothing.
She continued.
“He told me Sophie ruined everything.”
“What did he mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“He keeps saying Monday was supposed to solve everything.”
Michael whispered,
“Foundation vote.”
I nodded.
“What else has he said?”
Madison took a breath.
“He said your father promised it would be handled.”
“What exactly?”
“He said, ‘Richard said the old documents were gone.’”
Michael froze.
“What documents?”
I asked.
“I don’t know.”
Then Madison added,
“Preston said someone named Mercer should never have made copies.”
Michael closed his eyes.
There it was again.
James Mercer.
The missing partner.
The man my mother said should have stayed quiet.
“Madison.”
I kept my voice low.
“Listen to me.”
“Can you leave the house?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is Preston threatening you?”
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
“He locked the front door.”
My heart pounded.
“Are there other people there?”
“I heard someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“A man.”
“Older.”
“Preston called him Dad once.”
My entire body went rigid.
“My father is there?”
“I think so.”
Michael swore.
I put the call on speaker.
“Madison,” he said.
“This is Michael Hale.”
“I need you to look for anything that identifies the property.”
“A letter.”
“A bill.”
“A framed photograph.”
“Anything.”
“I can try.”
Then we heard footsteps.
Madison stopped talking.
A door opened.
Preston’s voice came faintly through the phone.
“Madison?”
No answer.
“Baby?”
His tone was almost gentle.
That frightened me more than yelling.
The footsteps came closer.
Then stopped.
Madison whispered,
“I have to hide the phone.”
The line remained open.
Fabric rustled.
Then silence.
Preston entered the room.
His voice was clearer now.
“Why did you leave the kitchen?”
“I needed the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
“You feeling sick?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sounded like a normal husband.
That was the most disturbing part.
Then Madison said,
“Why are we here?”
A pause.
“You know why.”
“No.”
“I don’t.”
Another pause.
Then Preston sighed.
“Because Evelyn always does this.”
My jaw tightened.
“She makes everything bigger.”
“She twists things.”
Madison asked,
“Did you put the phone in Sophie’s jacket?”
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
Then Preston answered.
“Yes.”
Michael and I stared at each other.
The call was still connected.
Madison said,
“Why?”
“Because I needed Evelyn discredited.”
“She wasn’t going to cooperate.”
“With what?”
“The board vote.”
“The trust.”
“Everything.”
My hands started shaking.
Madison kept him talking.
“And your dad knew?”
Preston laughed.
“Of course he knew.”
I stopped breathing.
“Mom?”
Madison asked.
Another laugh.
“Mom knows enough.”
Michael mouthed,
“Recording.”
I nodded.
I checked my phone.
The call recording feature was active through an accessibility app I used for work interviews.
Every word was being saved.
Madison asked,
“Why Sophie?”
Preston’s answer came immediately.
“Because Evelyn would fight harder over Sophie than herself.”
The words made me sick.
“You knew she’d react.”
“Exactly.”
“If Evelyn hit me or caused a scene, Dad could use it.”
“And if she didn’t?”
“Then Sophie would still look like a thief.”
Madison’s voice became colder.
“You used an eight-year-old child.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The family language.
Don’t be dramatic.
You’re making a scene.
You’re overreacting.
Different mouths.
Same poison.
Then Madison asked,
“What about Mercer?”
Preston went silent.
The silence lasted too long.
Finally he said,
“That’s Dad’s problem.”
“What happened to him?”
“Stop asking questions.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“And?”
“And you should understand which side you’re on.”
Then another voice entered.
My father.
“Preston.”
Every muscle in my body tensed.
“Enough.”
Preston lowered his voice.
“I’m handling it.”
“No.”
Richard said.
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You ran from a hotel full of police.”
“You told me to leave.”
“I told you not to speak.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Madison asked,
“Richard, where is James Mercer?”
Everything went quiet.
Then my father said something I would never forget.
May you like
“He is not coming back.”
The line went dead.
