Chapter 3 - The Upper Arlington Heist
The night air was thick with fog as Ethan backed his gray Ford F-150 into the tree-lined driveway three blocks away from the Vance estate in Upper Arlington.
He looked over at Claire, who had swapped her high heels for a pair of Sophie’s old combat boots and an oversized black jacket Ethan had pulled from the back of his shop closet.
“This is breaking and entering, Claire,” Ethan said, his hands resting on the steering wheel. “If the police catch us, I lose my business. If Grant catches us, he’ll use it to take Sophie away from me. He’ll call CPS and claim I’m putting my daughter in dangerous situations.”
“I know,” Claire said, her face illuminated by the green glow of the dashboard lights. “That’s why you’re staying in the truck.”
Ethan snorted. “You think I’m going to let my CEO scale a iron fence in stolen boots while I sit here listening to the radio?”
“It’s my fight, Ethan.”
“It became my fight the moment you fell asleep in my parking lot,” Ethan said, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a heavy brass key ring and a pair of leather work gloves. “I restored the original oak paneling and hidden cabinetry in that house six years ago. Grant thinks he knows every inch of that place because he signed the mortgage checks. But I built the secrets into those walls.”
Claire stared at him, a sudden wave of relief and disbelief washing over her. “You built the safe room?”
“I built the concealments for your predecessor,” Ethan corrected, unlocking his door. “Now put your hood up. We have twenty minutes before the guard shift rotates.”
They moved like shadows through the manicured hedges of the sprawling limestone mansion. The rain had started to fall—a steady, icy drizzle that made the granite steps slick.
Ethan led her around the back patio, past the dark infinity pool, toward a low-set service door that led into the estate’s wine cellar. He knelt down, pulling a thin metal lock-pick set from his pocket.
“Where did you learn to pick a mortise lock?” Claire whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the security camera mounted near the garage.
“Restoring old doors means understanding how old locks fail,” Ethan murmured. Click. The heavy iron handle turned smoothly under his palm. “Inside. Move quiet.”
The interior of the mansion smelled of fresh paint, expensive leather, and stale scotch. Light spilled from the top of the grand staircase, accompanied by the muffled sound of Grant Vance’s loud, boisterous voice speaking on a speakerphone in the master study.
“...She has no leverage left, Arthur,” Grant was saying, his voice cold and arrogant. “By tomorrow night, the board will have no choice. The charter is sitting in my desk drawer, and Claire is sleeping in her car like a homeless dog.”
Claire squeezed her eyes shut, her fists clenching until her nails bit into her palms. Ethan laid a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder, leaning close to her ear.
“He’s wrong,” Ethan whispered. “The charter isn't in his desk drawer. He thinks it is because he doesn't know about the secondary compartment behind the library mantle.”
They glided silently across the Persian rugs into the library—a massive, two-story room lined with leather-bound books and dark mahogany paneling. Ethan stepped toward the massive stone fireplace, reaching his gloved hand behind the carved wooden rosette near the mantle's edge.
He pressed a hidden mechanical latch.
With a faint thunk, a small section of the wood paneling slid open, revealing a velvet-lined vault.
Inside sat a thick, yellowed parchment document bound in dark red leather with the gold-embossed seal of Stonebridge Design Group.
Claire gasped softly, reaching out to touch the document. “It’s here.”
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the library slammed open.
May you like
The overhead lights flashed on, blinding them both.
“Well, well,” Grant Vance’s voice cut through the room like a silver blade. He stood in the doorway, flanked by two burly men in black tactical vests. “Look what the rain dragged in.”
