Chapter 3 - Friday Morning at the Grand Hotel
The lobby of the Grand Hotel was a monument to nineteenth-century excess: polished mahogany columns, crystal chandeliers that dripped like frozen waterfalls, and thick Persian rugs that swallowed the sound of footsteps.
At precisely ten o'clock, the private dining room on the second floor hummed with self-congratulatory triumph.
Through the glass partitions overlooking the atrium, I watched my family.
Sybil wore a cream designer Chanel suit that cost more than the Lorelei's initial restoration budget. Alden sat beside her, sipping black coffee and nervously tapping his silver pen against the saucer. Fallon was busy checking her reflection in a compact mirror, reapplying gloss with the air of someone who believed she had already won an Oscar for being victimized by life.
And Rowena—a sharp-faced woman with dyed blonde hair and eyes like chipped glass—was laughing loudly, shaking hands with a middle-aged man in an expensive charcoal suit.
Mr. Henderson, the senior acquisitions director for Horizon Hotels.
I stood by the grand staircase wearing a dark wool coat, my hands tucked into my pockets, watching the scene unfold. Hayes stood a few feet away, leaning against a marble pillar, looking like an assassin waiting for clearance.
Through the glass, I saw Rowena slide a thick manila folder across the mahogany table. Henderson opened it, scanned the fraudulent assignment document bearing Grandpa’s confused digital signature, and nodded in satisfaction.
"Everything is in order," Henderson said, his voice carrying faintly through the heavy doors. "Once you sign the transfer of deed and the bank clears the wire transfer of two point five million dollars, the waterfront parcel is officially ours. You can begin evicting the boatyard immediately."
Sybil beamed, her face lighting up with a greedy, ugly joy. "Oh, we won't just evict them. We're going to auction off Merit's precious antique tools to pay for the demolition."
Fallon clapped her hands together like an excited toddler. "I can finally buy that penthouse in Chicago!"
Alden didn't smile, but he didn't stop them either. He reached for his pen, ready to countersign as the secondary beneficiary.
I checked my watch. 10:14 a.m.
One minute until Arthur Vance's federal injunction took effect.
I buttoned my coat, pushed off the marble pillar, and began walking across the polished lobby toward the private dining room doors. Hayes fell in step right beside me, his stride long and unyielding.
Inside the room, Alden pressed the tip of his pen to the dotted line.
"Sign it," Rowena urged, her voice sharp with anticipation. "Sign it before the old man wakes up and changes his mind again."
Before the ink could hit the paper, the double doors of the private dining room swung open with a resounding bang.
Sybil froze. Fallon dropped her compact mirror, shattering the glass against the floor.
May you like
I walked into the room, my boots clicking rhythmically against the expensive carpet. Hayes flanked my right side, and two uniformed county sheriff deputies flanked my left, followed immediately by Arthur Vance carrying a thick leather briefcase.
"Good morning, family," I said, my voice cutting through the stunned silence like a diamond glass-cutter.
