Chapter 19 - Clayton ReevesClayton Reeves looked less like a criminal than a man who sold expensive kitchen islands.
That made sense, in a way. The most dangerous people rarely looked dangerous. They looked competent. Polished. Helpful. They knew where to stand in photographs and how to say “opportunity” when they meant “trap.”
He entered the deposition room wearing a gray suit and a watch too large for his wrist.
Madison did not come with him.
Andrew did.
That surprised me.
The two men sat on opposite sides of the table, not speaking. Whatever partnership had existed between them had curdled into mutual suspicion.
Marisol had warned me that depositions were not courtroom drama. No shouting. No sudden confessions. Just questions, objections, pauses, and the slow tightening of a net.
But Clayton made a mistake early.
He underestimated me.
Marisol asked when he first learned the Canandaigua property was titled solely to me.
Clayton adjusted his cuff.
“I don’t recall.”
Marisol slid a printed email across the table.
“Does this refresh your memory?”
He glanced down.
His expression barely changed.
Barely.
The email was from Andrew.
Claire inherited both properties. She is sensitive about family assets. We need to approach through emotional need, not business opportunity.
Clayton looked at his attorney.
His attorney looked tired.
Marisol asked, “Did you understand that Mr. Parker did not own the property?”
“I understood there were marital considerations.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Clayton smiled faintly.
Men like him thought precision was a game.
Marisol was better at it.
By lunchtime, Clayton had admitted enough to damage Andrew while protecting himself. By midafternoon, he had implied Madison was the driving force. By four o’clock, Andrew’s face had turned the color of old paper.
Then Marisol asked about the passport materials.
Clayton’s smile vanished.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see the name Clara Morgan Parker before the case was opened?”
“No.”
“Did Madison?”
Clayton did not answer immediately.
Andrew stared at him.
Clayton’s attorney objected.
Marisol rephrased.
“Did Madison Vale ever discuss creating or using a dependent identity in connection with financing documents?”
Clayton leaned back.
“I want immunity.”
The room went silent.
Andrew stood halfway. “You son of a—”
His attorney pulled him down.
Marisol did not smile.
But I felt the air shift.
Clayton Reeves, polished investor, brother, fixer, opportunist, had just confirmed there was something worth trading.
After the deposition, Andrew waited for me near the elevator.
Daniel stepped between us immediately.
Andrew looked terrible. Not sad. Not remorseful.
Terrified.
“Claire,” he said, voice shaking. “Madison is going to blame me for everything.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“She has things. Messages. Recordings. She’ll make it look like I planned it all.”
“Did you?”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
I pressed the elevator button.
Andrew whispered, “I never meant for it to get this far.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside.
Before they closed, I said, “That is what every person says after the damage becomes visible.”
That evening, Rebecca Harlan called me again.
“I heard about Clayton,” she said.
“From who?”
“He called me.”
My body tensed.
“What did he want?”
“To warn me.”
“About what?”
Rebecca’s voice lowered.
“Madison disappeared.”
I gripped the phone.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“She emptied her apartment. Her car is gone. Her accounts are quiet. Clayton thinks she took cash and documents.”
The house seemed to still around me.
“Documents about what?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“About you.”
I looked toward the dark window.
For one terrible second, I saw Madison’s smile on my porch.
May you like
This isn’t over.
Apparently, she had meant it.
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