Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Past
The rain had finally stopped by Tuesday morning, leaving Chicago coated in a slick sheen of asphalt and gray ice. I sat behind my desk on the top floor of the Northstar Building, staring at the closed manila folder Ethan had delivered the afternoon before.
For thirty-six hours, I hadn't opened it.
Instead, I had stared at the city, remembering the cold that seeped through my wet socks on the night I turned sixteen. I remembered the sensation of my wooden crutches digging into my armpits, leaving dark purple bruises that lasted for weeks. I remembered Aunt Sylvia opening her front door, her eyes filling with tears as she wrapped a thick wool blanket around my shivering shoulders without asking a single question.
Sylvia had passed away three years ago from heart failure. She lived long enough to see me graduate top of my class at Northwestern, long enough to see me sign the lease on my first small office, and long enough to see me walk smoothly on my first high-tech prosthetic. She had been my real mother.
I leaned forward, broke the red wax seal on the folder, and flipped it open.
The first document was a corporate filing for an entity called Luxe Horizon Real Estate Development, listed under Emily Whitaker’s name. The second was a formal subpoena issued by the United States District Court for the Northern District of Illinois.
I called Ethan into my office. He walked in carrying a tablet, his face grim.
"Walk me through it, Ethan," I said, leaning back in my leather chair.
"Your sister was running a classic Ponzi scheme, Rebecca," Ethan explained, taking a seat across from me. "About three years ago, Emily pitched herself as a boutique luxury developer in the North Shore area. She convinced wealthy retirees—mostly members of your parents' old country club—to invest in high-end condo conversions in Lincoln Park and Evanston."
I raised an eyebrow. "Emily doesn't know the first thing about real estate development. She majored in art history and worked as a part-time stylist."
"She didn't need to know real estate," Ethan said with a grim chuckle. "She had your parents' social standing and your name."
My spine went rigid. "My name?"
Ethan tapped his tablet screen and pushed it across the desk. "She didn't use you explicitly as an officer, but she heavily implied to investors that Northstar Capital was backing her projects behind the scenes. She showed prospective clients fake joint-venture agreements bearing forged signatures from your acquisitions department. People saw the name Whitaker, saw your meteoric rise in the Chicago market, and assumed it was a family enterprise."
A cold rage burned low in my stomach. "How much did she take?"
"Total wire fraud amount is roughly four point two million dollars," Ethan revealed. "She was using new investor money to pay off old investors, while skimming hundreds of thousands off the top to finance her lifestyle—designer clothes, leased Ferraris, trips to St. Barts, high-end private galas."
"And where does the one million dollars come in?"
"A grand jury was impaneled three weeks ago," Ethan said. "One of her primary investors—a retired orthopedic surgeon named Dr. Arthur Pendelton—realized his quarterly returns were fake. He threatened to go directly to the FBI unless she returned his initial principal investment of one million dollars by Friday at 5:00 PM. If she pays him back, he agrees not to present his records to the grand jury, giving her lawyer room to negotiate a civil settlement out of the spotlight."
"And if she doesn't?"
"The indictment drops on Monday," Ethan said plainly. "Wire fraud, bank fraud, and aggravated identity theft. She’s looking at twelve to fifteen years in a federal penitentiary."
I closed the folder slowly. The symmetry was almost poetic. Nineteen years ago, my parents stole my identity and destroyed my credit to fund Emily’s childhood. Now, Emily had stolen my corporate reputation to fund her adulthood.
"Does Charles or Lorraine know that I know?" I asked.
May you like
"No," Ethan replied. "They think you're still completely in the dark. But Charles has been making calls to your executive vice president, trying to schedule an urgent meeting behind your back."
I stood up, walked to the glass window, and looked down at the streets below. "Let him come. In fact, call him. Tell him I’ve reconsidered, and invite him to my office tomorrow morning."
