Chapter 6 - The Clean House
The winter snow began to fall over the city in mid-November, dusting the manicured lawns of the Halstead estate under a clean, silent blanket of white.
Inside the main house, the transformation was total.
Every piece of furniture Evan had brought into the guest wing—the sleek, soulless leather couches, the glass tables, the expensive audio equipment bought with company credit cards—had been removed and loaded onto a moving truck bound for a city shelter auction.
In their place, I had restored Richard’s old library: the warm oak bookshelves, the worn leather armchairs, the oil paintings of the harbor, and the fireplace that had stayed dark for three years.
Sitting in the wingback chair by the fire was Sarah Jenkins, the Assistant US Attorney, who had come to deliver the final pre-trial disclosure documents.
“He offered to plead,” Sarah said, taking a sip of hot apple cider I had prepared.
“Plead to what?” I asked, sitting across from her with my knitting needles in my hands.
“Twelve years,” Sarah replied, watching my face. “His attorney says he will plead guilty to wire fraud and grand larceny if we drop the aggravated assault and extortion charges. He wants to serve his time in a low-security federal camp in Pennsylvania.”
I paused my knitting, looking at the yellow flames dancing behind the iron grate.
“Twelve years in a low-security camp,” I repeated softly. “Where he can play tennis, use the library, and petition for early parole in four?”
“That is the standard defense proposal for first-time financial offenders,” Sarah admitted.
“No,” I said.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“He pushed an elderly woman down twelve marble steps,” I said, looking her in the eye. “He left her bleeding on the floor while he went to buy bourbon. He embezzled the retirement funds of three hundred workers to pay off harbor bookies. If he were a poor boy from the South Side who stole a car, would you offer him a four-year tennis camp?”
Sarah smiled faintly—a tight, professional smile that approved of my answer.
“We go to trial in January, Mrs. Halstead,” Sarah said, closing her leather folder. “And I will ask for twenty-four years in a medium-security facility.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” I said.
The front door bell chimed softly.
A moment later, Frank Castle stepped into the library, holding a silver tray with three sealed letters.
“From the bank, ma'am?” I asked.
“No, Mrs. Halstead,” Frank said, his broad face serious. “These were delivered by hand to the front gate. They are from the victims’ advocacy committee for the Halstead Logistics workers.”
I opened the top letter.
It was not a legal demand. It was a letter signed by forty-two senior warehouse workers and freight drivers from our South Harbor terminal.
Dear Mrs. Halstead, We heard what happened in court. We know you protected our pension funds from being liquidated during the audit. We know you could have sold the company to cover the losses, but you stayed. Halstead Logistics is still operating because of you. We stand behind you.
May you like
I held the paper in my hands, feeling a strange, warm sensation rising in my chest—a feeling that had been buried under marble steps, blood, and cold prime rib for months.
I wasn't just surviving. I was rebuilding.
