Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Machine
Three days had passed since the incident at the club.
Eleanor Vance sat in her sprawling penthouse,
sipping iced tea and reviewing the guest list for her upcoming charity gala.
Everything was perfect.
The flowers were ordered,
the catering was set,
and her social standing was more secure than ever.
She had forgotten about the waitress,
or the broken glass,
or the blood on her shoes.
To Eleanor,
people like Mary were disposable,
like paper napkins to be discarded after a meal.
However,
in the underbelly of the city,
a storm was brewing.
Mary was not working alone.
She had reached out to an old contact,
a journalist named Julian who owed her a life debt from her previous career.
"I have the files,"
Mary said into the burner phone,
her voice clipped and precise.
"Everything on the Vance accounts.
The offshore shell companies,
the tax evasion,
the falsified donations to the club."
On the other end of the line,
Julian went silent.
"Mary,
are you sure about this?"
he asked,
his tone cautious.
"This is dangerous ground.
The Vances have friends in high places."
"They have money,
Julian,"
Mary corrected him,
her eyes scanning a spreadsheet of bank transactions.
"Money can buy friends,
but it cannot hide the truth.
The numbers don't lie.
I have traced the last six months of their activity.
It's all here.
It's enough to bury them."
"Why now?"
Julian pressed,
his curiosity piqued.
Mary looked at her bandaged hand,
the scars still fresh.
"Because,"
she said quietly,
"everyone deserves to know who they are really dealing with."
She sent the encrypted file,
a digital grenade that was set to detonate the moment they launched it.
Back at the penthouse,
Eleanor’s husband,
Richard,
paced the floor.
He was a man of nervous energy,
constantly checking his watch,
constantly looking over his shoulder.
"Eleanor,"
he started,
his voice trembling.
"I got a strange email today.
Someone sent me a screenshot of a transaction I thought was untraceable."
Eleanor scoffed,
not even looking up from her tablet.
"You're being paranoid,
Richard.
It was probably just a phishing scam.
Delete it and stop worrying about your bank account."
"No,
you don't understand,"
Richard insisted,
walking over to her and pointing at his screen.
"This was from an encrypted server.
It was specifically addressed to me.
They know about the Cayman accounts,
Eleanor.
They know everything."
Eleanor froze.
She looked at the screen,
her face pale.
"Who sent it?"
she hissed,
her voice tight with sudden fear.
"There was no signature,"
Richard whispered.
"Just a single word at the bottom.
Karma."
Eleanor felt a chill run down her spine.
She thought back to the terrace,
to the waitress on her knees,
to the look in her eyes.
"It's just a coincidence,"
she told herself,
though her hands were shaking.
"Just a stupid,
vicious coincidence."
But deep down,
she knew it wasn't.
The game had shifted,
and she was no longer the one holding the cards.
May you like
The ghost from the terrace was haunting her,
and she had no idea how to exorcise it.
