Chapter 8 - The Falling Domain
The fallout from the broadcast was instantaneous and catastrophic for the conspirators. By 5:00 p.m., the Federal Bureau of Investigation had assumed control of the case. Unmarked black vans swarmed Thomas Westbrook’s luxury downtown offices, carrying out boxes of evidence and corporate servers.
I sat on the porch of the estate, watching the sunset, when my phone rang. This time, it wasn't a demanding text or a furious threat. It was a voice memo from my father, sent from a burner phone.
"Emily... please," his voice sounded broken, stripped of the arrogant authority he had used at the dinner table. "The FBI is at the office. Your mother is hysterical. We didn't know Thomas was involved in the accident... we thought it was just about the money, just about keeping the accounting contracts. If you don't withdraw the ledger, your mother and I are going to prison for twenty years. We are your flesh and blood, Emily! You can't do this to us!"
I listened to the entire memo, feeling a strange sense of detachment. They were still treating their actions like a misunderstanding, still trying to leverage the concept of "flesh and blood" after they had thrown me to the wolves.
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I typed a single, final reply: “You told me at Christmas that if I didn't abandon Noah, I was done with this family. I took your advice. Don't call me again.”
An hour later, the news networks confirmed that Councilman Thomas Westbrook had been arrested at the airport attempting to board a private flight to a non-extradition country. My parents were taken into custody at their suburban home shortly after, their names permanently dragged out of the country-club society they had sacrificed their integrity to maintain.
