Garrett reached the bottom of the landing and stopped three feet from the older man.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. He simply reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the manila folder I had compiled, and tossed it onto the mahogany console table beside the door.
“Open it, Arthur,” Garrett said.
Vane frowned, suspicious, but he reached out and flipped the cover open.
His eyes scanned the first page of wire transfers, the Delaware incorporation papers, and the inflated vendor invoices signed by his own son-in-law’s corporate deputy.
The color vanished from Vane’s face so fast he looked like he had just been hit by a truck.
“This... this is an administrative error,” Vane stammered, his fingers trembling slightly as he clutched the papers. “Some low-level clerk in the procurement office—!”
“The clerk was Celeste,” Garrett interrupted smoothly. “And the signature authorizing the shell company routing number is yours, Arthur. Bottom right corner of page three. I had my forensic accountants verify it yesterday afternoon before I sent copies to the federal prosecutor in Manhattan.”
Vane stared at the page. The arrogant, untouchable posture dissolved completely, leaving behind an old, desperate man who realized the trap had already snapped shut.
“Garrett... let’s talk,” Vane whispered, his voice cracking. “Family... we were going to be family. We can settle this quietly. A private arbitration. You drop the federal referral, and I’ll buy out your northern shipping shares at a premium—”
“The only thing you’re going to buy, Arthur,” Garrett said, stepping closer until he towered over the older man, “is a very expensive defense attorney.”
He gestured toward the open front doors where the two federal marshals were standing in the cold morning air.
“Miller, Vance. Escort Mr. Vane off the property. Make sure he doesn't leave any paperwork behind.”
Arthur Vane didn't fight. He let Miller take him by the elbow, his head bowed, the silver hair catching the gray morning light as he was led back down the stone steps toward the black Mercedes.
The heavy oak doors closed with a solid, satisfying thud.
The foyer was quiet again.
I looked down at the flowers Percy had brought in—fresh white lilies and deep red roses, smelling faintly of spring even in the dead of winter.
Garrett turned around, walking slowly back toward me.
“Well,” he said, a faint, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth. “It appears the estate is officially clean.”
“For now,” I replied, handing him the flower manifest to sign. “Though you’d be surprised how fast dust settles when you stop watching the corners.”
Garrett took the pen from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine for a fraction of a second—warm, steady, and entirely sure of themselves.
He signed his name at the bottom of the page, handed the clipboard back, and looked out across the quiet, safe halls of his home.
“Then it’s a good thing,” Garrett said softly, “that I finally hired someone who knows how to clean house.”