Chapter 8: Vermont
Fitch called at seven the following morning.
Emily was already awake, sitting at the small desk in her hotel room with a cup of coffee she had barely touched.
"She's still at the Vermont property," Fitch said.
"She arrived last night.
Her attorney has been in contact with our office twice since then.
The cooperation discussions are continuing." A pause.
"But there's a development."
Emily set the coffee down.
"Vanessa made a call last night from the Vermont property," Fitch said.
"To a number registered to a private data management firm in Delaware.
We believe this firm holds archival records for Vance Logistics — records that predate the digital system, going back to the early years of the company." Another pause.
"We think she may be attempting to access or remove physical records that could corroborate the bridge financing timeline."
"Can you stop her?" Emily asked.
"We've applied for an emergency preservation order on the firm's holdings.
It should be granted within the hour.
But the firm's principal is a man named Garrett Lowe, and he has a long relationship with the Vance family." Fitch's voice was careful.
"We don't know yet whether he'll comply immediately or stall."
Emily stood up from the desk and walked to the window.
Grey morning light.
The street below was quiet.
"What do you need from me?" she asked.
"Nothing right now," Fitch said.
"I'm calling because I told you I would keep you informed.
And because—" He stopped.
"Because you deserve to know that she's still fighting."
"I know she is," Emily said.
"She doesn't know how to stop."
After the call ended, Emily stood at the window for a long time.
She thought about Vanessa in a remote house in Vermont, making phone calls, working every angle, trying to find the one lever that would shift the weight of what was coming.
She thought about Richard Vance handing a folded piece of paper to a federal investigator in his own sitting room, his daughter watching from across the room.
She thought about a man named Howard Greer driving home from his sister's house.
A woman named Carla Simms on her way to a routine appointment.
She thought about a filing cabinet.
A misfiled email chain.
A twenty-three-year-old who had stayed late to finish a quarterly report and opened the wrong folder.
Her phone rang again.
Not Fitch this time.
Daniel Hawthorne.
"Emily," he said.
"I hope I'm not calling too early."
"I've been up for hours," she said.
"I heard from Fitch this morning.
About Vermont." A pause.
"I also heard about the preservation order.
I want you to know — I've already spoken to my legal team.
If Garrett Lowe stalls or attempts to obstruct, the Hawthorne legal office will file a parallel civil action to freeze the firm's records independently.
We have standing to do it.
We won't wait."
Emily was quiet for a moment.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
Not suspiciously.
Genuinely.
"Because two people d*ed," Daniel said.
"And because you tried to prevent it and were silenced, and that happened in part because people like me didn't pay close enough attention to what the Vance family was doing in this city." A pause.
"I've known Richard Vance for twenty years.
I attended his daughter's charity events.
I never looked closely enough at where the money went." His voice was even, but something underneath it was not.
"This is what I can do now."
Emily looked at the grey sky outside the window.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't thank me yet," Daniel said.
"Lowe hasn't responded to the preservation order."
As if on cue, her phone buzzed with a text from Fitch.
She pulled it from her ear to read it.
*Lowe has agreed to comply.
Records are being secured now.
Vanessa's call to him last night was recorded.
She instructed him to destroy three specific archive boxes.
He didn't.
He called our office instead.*
Emily read it twice.
She put the phone back to her ear.
"Daniel," she said.
"The records are secure.
Lowe cooperated."
A brief silence.
"Good," Daniel said.
Then, quietly: "It's almost over, Emily."
"Almost," she said.
She ended the call and sat back down at the desk.
She picked up the coffee.
It had gone cold.
She drank it anyway.
At noon, Ruth arrived at the hotel with sandwiches and news.
She set both on the table and sat across from Emily with the particular expression of someone carrying information they're glad to deliver.
"The handwriting analysis came back," Ruth said.
"The signature on the original authorization form is confirmed as Vanessa Vance's.
The digital metadata on the email chain is authenticated — it matches the Vance Logistics server records from the relevant period." She folded her hands on the table.
"Fitch says the prosecutors are moving to formal charges.
They expect to execute by end of day."
Emily looked at the sandwich in front of her.
She hadn't eaten since the night before.
"Both of them?" she asked.
"Vanessa and Webb?"
"Both," Ruth said.
"And Martin Crowell — the inspector — will be charged separately, though his cooperation is being considered.
Richard Vance has been granted limited immunity in exchange for his full cooperation and the payment records." Ruth paused.
"He asked, through his attorney, whether you would be willing to speak with him at some point.
Not now.
When this is further along."
Emily thought about Richard Vance in his doorway, looking at her.
*You were the filing girl.*
"Tell his attorney I'll think about it," she said.
Ruth nodded.
She didn't push.
They ate in silence for a while.
Outside, the November sky had begun to clear — thin winter light breaking through the grey in pale, uncertain strips.
"Ruth," Emily said.
"When Fitch executes the charges — will I know?
Will someone call me?"
"I'll call you myself," Ruth said.
"The moment it happens."
Emily nodded.
She picked up the second half of her sandwich.
"Then I'm going to try to sleep this afternoon," she said.
"For the first time in about thirty-six hours."
Ruth smiled.
"That sounds like an excellent idea."
Emily almost smiled back.
Almost.
Because Vanessa was still in Vermont.
The charges hadn't landed yet.
And Emily had learned, over fourteen months of careful, frightened waiting, not to exhale until the door was fully closed.
She was close.
May you like
She could feel it.
But close was not the same as done.
