Chapter 9 - The Demolition of Ghosts
Two days later, the rain cleared, leaving behind a crisp, crystalline winter sky over the Chicago skyline.
I stood inside the main auditorium of the Lakefront Theater, watching a crew of demolition workers tear down the western false wall.
Sledgehammers smashed through the hollow cinder blocks, revealing the empty, rusted steel pipes of the old transit vaults.
There were no contraband boxes left.
The federal marshals had already seized every hard drive, ledger, and shipping manifest from Dominic Rossi’s warehouse in New Jersey.
Victoria Hale’s face had been on the front page of every major newspaper in the country that morning.
The prima ballerina turned corporate smuggler, indicted on sixteen counts of federal racketeering and wire fraud.
Her brother Tommy had already entered a guilty plea for second-degree murder, confessing under oath that his sister had paid him ten thousand dollars to tamper with Julian Avery’s car.
The justice system had moved with ruthless, terrifying efficiency, guided behind the scenes by Ethan’s untraceable influence.
I heard the heavy oak doors open at the rear of the theater.
I did not need to turn around to know who it was.
Ethan walked down the central aisle, dressed in a simple navy wool overcoat, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
He looked older.
The sharp, aristocratic arrogance that had defined his presence for years had been carved away, leaving the raw outline of a man who had stared into his own ruin.
He stopped ten paces behind me, looking up at the proscenium arch where the morning light poured through the restored skylights.
"The foundation is sound," I said, breaking the silence without turning around.
"The structural engineers finished the core samples this morning."
"The theater will stand for another century without needing Carter iron to hold it up."
"I'm glad," Ethan replied quietly.
"The Chicago Tribune called your firm this morning."
"They want an exclusive on the restoration design for their Sunday architectural magazine."
"I told them the design belongs to Claire Avery."
Ethan flinched slightly at the use of my maiden name, but he did not protest.
"Marcus told me you moved the rest of your belongings out of the Gold Coast penthouse," he said.
May you like
"I took my drawings, my father’s books, and my drafting table," I answered.
"The rest belongs to the life we tried to build out of secrets."
