Silence in this hall costs more than the marble under our shoes, the estate attorney said, opening the black leather portfolio before sixty silent mourners.
The Chicago Loop office building loomed over me, a dark, reflective monolith against the grey, pouring rain. I stood clutching my umbrella, the cold seeping into my bones, trying to decide what my next move would be. With Julian blocking me at every turn and my own mother now against me, the walls were closing in.
A man suddenly appeared beside me, his trench coat already soaked, a thick newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Maya Chen?” he asked, his voice gravelly, cutting through the drumming rain.
I flinched, turning to face him. He was older, with sharp, assessing eyes and a scar that ran from his temple to his jawline.
“Marcus Brody,” he offered, extending a hand that was surprisingly warm despite the weather. “Chicago Tribune.”
My first thought was that he was here because of Julian’s public accusations at the funeral. Perhaps Julian had leaked something to the press to further discredit me.
“Are you looking for a story about my grandfather’s passing?” I asked, my voice guarded. “About the recent transfer of the Pilsen Cultural Center?”
Brody let out a short, humorless laugh. Rain dripped from the brim of his fedora.
“Chen,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t care about family squabbles or who gets what in a will.”
He pulled a laminated card from his pocket, flashing his press credentials.
“I’m investigating something much bigger. City Hall zoning kickbacks. And a shell entity named Apex West.”
He paused, letting the name hang in the air. My mind raced. Apex West was the name Julian had mentioned to the board. The mysterious entity behind the Pilsen high-rise.
Brody produced a crumpled printout from his coat pocket. It was a land registry filing.
“This is the Pilsen Cultural Center parcel,” he explained, pointing a thick finger at a line item. “Listed as purchased for $45 million by Apex West.”
My breath hitched. Forty-five million dollars. Jin-Woo had told me the firm was struggling to make ends meet.
“Julian Ross is listed as Apex West’s primary managing director,” Brody continued, his finger moving to another line. “But there’s another anonymous signature beside his. Someone high up.”
He folded the printout, tucking it back into his coat. His eyes bore into mine.
“I need access to Chen & Ross internal archives,” he stated, his tone firm. “To follow the money. And that anonymous signature.”
“Why would I help you?” I asked, though my pulse had quickened. This was far from the family drama I’d expected.
“Because if you don’t,” Brody said, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low growl, “I’ll publish an article linking the Chen family to municipal zoning fraud. Your grandfather’s name will be on the front page, tied to a kickback scheme. And I assure you, Miss Chen, no amount of ‘sacred legacy’ will survive that.”
He stepped back, letting the rain resume its rhythmic assault. The clock was ticking, and an investigative reporter had just laid out a brutal choice. My grandfather’s reputation, my family’s name, or Julian’s secrets.
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