Chapter 7 - Checkmate
The entrance hall was packed with the city's elite, sipping champagne and laughing.
I walked straight through the crowd, Vance and the officers right behind me. The music seemed to fade as people noticed the police uniform. Murmurs rippled through the room.
I reached the grand living room just as Reagan was stepping up to a microphone. She was wearing a stunning black evening gown, holding a glass of champagne. Carter stood beside her, looking smug in a tailored tuxedo.
“...and so, it is with great pride, and a heavy heart, that we transition Dennis Construction to its new chapter,” Reagan was saying, putting on a fake, mournful smile. “Camden would have wanted—”
“Camden would have wanted you behind bars.”
My voice echoed through the silent room.
Reagan froze. The color drained from her perfectly made-up face. She stared at me, her eyes widening in absolute horror.
“You...” she stammered, dropping her microphone. It let out a loud, piercing feedback screech. “I told you never to come back here! Security!”
“Security can't help you, Reagan,” I said, stepping into the center of the room. I looked at the crowd of investors. “There is no sale tonight. This woman doesn't own Dennis Construction. She stole it.”
Carter lunged forward, his face red with rage. “You lying little convict! I'll kill—”
Before Carter could take three steps, two undercover FBI agents grabbed his arms, slamming him against the grand piano.
“Carter Dennis, you're under arrest for grand larceny, wire fraud, and extortion,” one of the agents barked, slapping handcuffs on his wrists.
The crowd gasped. Several investors began backing away toward the door.
Reagan's hands were shaking violently. “This is insane! He's a convicted felon! He's crazy!”
Vance stepped forward, holding up a thick manila folder.
“We have the financial records from the Cayman Islands, Reagan. We have the IP addresses proving you transferred the money from this very house while framing Finnley. And we have the forged power of attorney documents you signed while Camden was sedated.”
Reagan stumbled backward, bumping into the wall. The elegant, untouchable facade she had worn for years shattered into a million pieces.
“He was dying anyway!” she screamed, tears of panic ruining her mascara. “He was weak! I deserved that money for taking care of him!”
A collective gasp swept through the room. She had just confessed in front of fifty witnesses.
A female police officer walked up to Reagan, gently took the champagne glass from her trembling hand, and forcefully turned her around.
“Reagan Dennis, you are under arrest.”
As the cold steel of the handcuffs clicked around her wrists, Reagan looked at me, her eyes filled with venom and defeat.
“You took everything from me,” she hissed.
I stepped closer, my voice deadly calm.
“No, Reagan. You just gave everything back.”
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I watched as they dragged her and a sobbing Carter out the front door. The red and blue lights of the police cruisers painted the gray walls of my house.
For the first time in three years, I could finally breathe.
