“We have to get out of here,” Clara whispered, pulling back from the hole. “If Montgomery triggers the cross-default, Arthur will be exposed. We need to be on the outside, ready to hit him with everything we have.”
“But the door,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “The super bolted it from the outside.”
Clara already had her messenger bag open. She pulled out a small crowbar, glinting dully in the dim light. “I figured as much. I’ve been doing some ‘maintenance’ of my own.”
She moved to the door, inserting the tip of the crowbar into the gap between the frame and the heavy wooden bar Arthur’s super had used. She strained, her muscles tensing, as she levered the bar. The wood groaned, protesting.
From the library, we heard Arthur’s increasingly frantic voice, punctuated by Montgomery’s clipped replies. They were arguing over specific lots, the valuations, the dwindling time.
*Crack!*
The wooden bar splintered. Clara pulled it free with a grunt, tossing it aside. The deadbolt still clicked, but the main obstruction was gone. The door swung inward with a soft sigh.
“Let’s go,” she breathed, her eyes darting into the dimly lit service corridor. “The main auction hasn’t started yet. Arthur’s too busy negotiating with Montgomery.”
We slipped out, moving like shadows along the narrow corridor. The air was cooler here, tasting of old service entrances and cleaning supplies. We reached the small, enclosed back staircase that led to the ground floor.
As we rounded a tight corner, a figure emerged from the shadows below, heading up.
Garrett Holbrook.
He was holding a locked leather briefcase, clasped tightly in both hands. Its surface was embossed with an intricate, official-looking seal – likely the notary stamp he used for his fraudulent documents. He nearly bumped into us, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Mr. Danforth! And… Clara?” Holbrook stammered, his face blanching. “What are you doing out of your room?”
He looked from my disheveled appearance to Clara’s grim expression, then to the splintered wood bar in my hand. His eyes widened further, a flicker of fear crossing his face.
“I have to call security,” he choked out, fumbling for his phone. “This is highly irregular. A breach of quarantine—”
“Go ahead, Holbrook,” Clara said, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Call security. And while you’re at it, explain why your notary seals suddenly appeared on a dozen fraudulent appraisal documents, all linked to Arthur’s failing hedge fund. Explain why you undervalued our parents’ trusts by tens of millions of dollars.”
Holbrook froze, his hand halfway to his phone. His breath hitched.
“I have a recording of our call, Garrett,” Clara pressed on, her voice devoid of mercy. “The one where you admitted to falsifying those documents for Arthur. The one where you detailed the kickbacks you received for every ‘worthless’ appraisal.”
Holbrook’s face drained of all color. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically between us and his briefcase. The prospect of losing his professional notary and appraisal license, perhaps even facing criminal charges, was suddenly very real. He didn’t make the call. His hand slowly dropped from his phone.
The corridor felt charged, silent save for the distant rumble of the city and the thumping of my own heart. We had him.
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