Chapter 11 - Behind the Glass
The Metropolitan Correctional Center was a concrete monolith of despair in lower Manhattan. The air inside smelled of industrial bleach, stale sweat, and damp iron.
Genevieve was escorted through three security checkpoints, her high-heeled boots echoing off the linoleum floors until she reached a private, soundproof visitation room. Behind the reinforced partition of scratch-resistant acrylic sat Arthur Vance.
He looked unraveled. The bespoke Savile Row suit had been replaced by a baggy, bright-orange prison jumpsuit. His silver hair, once meticulously slicked back, hung limp and unwashed across his forehead. His face was gray, hollowed by two days of absolute reality crashing down upon him.
When Genevieve took her seat on the other side of the glass, Arthur let out a dry, rasping chuckle, picking up the heavy black telephone receiver.
Genevieve picked up her receiver, her face an unreadable mask. "You have five minutes, Arthur."
"Look at you," Arthur sneered through the static-heavy line. "The conquering queen. Sitting in Alistair’s high chair, issuing decrees, throwing your own blood into a cage."
"You lost the right to call me blood the moment you tampered with my car on Route 9," she replied coldly. "You have four minutes and thirty seconds. What do you know about my father’s crash?"
Arthur leaned closer to the glass, his yellowed eyes fixing onto hers with malicious delight. "You think you're so smart, Genevieve. You think the world operates like a business school case study. Debt, leverage, stock options. You think Richard Cole was the only one who wanted to climb over your body to reach the trust?"
"Get to the point, Arthur."
"Twelve years ago, your father, Alexander, discovered that Vance Maritime wasn't just shipping oil and heavy machinery," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling with manic intensity. "He discovered that our European division had been infiltrated by a syndicate known as the Iron Vanguard. A shadow consortium operating out of Geneva, using our deep-water container ships to move untraceable black-market capital across sovereign borders."
Genevieve remained entirely motionless, though her heart picked up its rhythm. "And my father was going to report them."
"Your father was an idealist, just like you!" Arthur spat. "He took the evidence to Alistair. But Alistair refused to act! Alistair knew that if the scandal broke, Vance Maritime would be nationalized by the federal government. The family name would be ruined forever!"
"That's a lie," Genevieve said fiercely. "Grandfather loved him."
"Alistair loved this empire more than his own flesh!" Arthur laughed bitterly. "Alexander booked that private flight to Washington to deliver the files directly to the Department of Defense. But his jet never reached three thousand feet. An electrical fault, they said. A tragic accident."
Arthur slammed his open palm against the partition, making the thick acrylic shudder. "It wasn't an accident, Genevieve! The bomb was planted inside the avionics bay in our private hangar in Teterboro! And the man who authorized the maintenance crew that night... the man who signed the clearance slip..."
Arthur paused, a monstrous, triumphant grin stretching across his face.
"Who?" Genevieve demanded, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the receiver.
Arthur leaned in so close his breath fogged the glass. "Ask your loyal dog, Douglas Osbert. Ask him why he retired from naval intelligence the very next day and took a private salary from your grandfather."
The line went completely dead as the guard behind Arthur tapped his watch, signaling the end of the session.
"Time's up, Vance," the guard grunted, pulling Arthur backward by his jumpsuit collar.
Arthur didn't resist. He allowed himself to be dragged backward toward the iron door, his eyes never leaving Genevieve’s face, his lips mouthing four silent, mocking words:
May you like
Check the hangar logs.
Genevieve sat frozen in the chair, the heavy receiver still pressed against her ear, listening to the hollow hum of empty static.
