Harrington Shaw's office occupied the top floor of the tallest building in Stonebrook, a glass-and-steel tower that Arthur Blackwood had built seven years ago as a monument to his own ambition. The elevator rose in silence, its walls mirrored so that Lila could watch herself from a dozen angles as she ascended. She'd worn her sharpest suit, the charcoal one with the subtle pinstripes, and she'd applied her makeup with the precision of a soldier preparing for battle. Harrington Shaw had seen her at her worst — disheveled, disbarred, destroyed. She wanted him to see her now, standing upright, unafraid.
The elevator doors opened onto a reception area decorated in shades of gray. The carpet was gray. The walls were gray. The receptionist's desk was gray. Even the flowers — a single arrangement of white orchids — seemed drained of color. Shaw had always preferred monochrome. He said it eliminated distractions. Lila had always suspected it eliminated humanity.
"Ms. Cross." The receptionist's smile was professional and empty. "Mr. Shaw will see you now."
Of course he would. She'd dangled the potassium chloride in front of him like a grenade with the pin pulled. Harrington Shaw was many things — a liar, a fabricator, a man who'd sold his soul to the highest bidder — but he wasn't stupid. He knew that if Lila had connected Clara Vance's death to Arthur Blackwood's supply chain, she had enough to start a federal investigation. And federal investigations made men like Harrington Shaw very, very nervous.
She followed the receptionist down a corridor lined with abstract art. The paintings were all originals, all expensive, all utterly devoid of meaning. Lila recognized one of them — a canvas of intersecting black lines against a white background — from Shaw's old office, the one he'd occupied at the firm where they'd both worked, the firm that had fired her and promoted him.
The corner office was larger than her first apartment. Windows covered two walls, offering a panoramic view of Stonebrook's artificial lagoon and the manicured streets beyond. Harrington Shaw sat behind a desk the size of a small car, his hands folded on its surface, his expression arranged into a mask of polite condescension.
"Lila." He didn't stand. He didn't offer her a chair. "It's been three years. You look well."
"I look like someone who got her license back."
"Ah, yes. The reinstatement. I read about it in the bar journal. Very inspiring. The fallen attorney who clawed her way back from disgrace." He smiled, showing teeth that were slightly too white, slightly too straight. "I assume you want a medal. Or an apology."
"I want information." Lila sat in the chair across from his desk without being invited. "You represent Arthur Blackwood. You've represented him for years. I want to know about Patricia Blackwood, about Clara Vance, and about the potassium chloride that someone used to stop Clara's heart."
Shaw's smile didn't waver. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then why did you agree to see me?"
"Curiosity. Professional courtesy. A desire to see whether you'd actually show up." He leaned back in his chair. "You accused me of fabricating evidence three years ago. You called me a liar in open court. You nearly destroyed my reputation. And now you walk into my office and demand my cooperation. Why on earth would I help you?"
"Because I'm not here to destroy your reputation, Harrington. I'm here to offer you a way out."
Shaw's smile flickered, just for an instant. "A way out of what?"
"Arthur Blackwood is going down. It's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when. The surveillance network, the blackmail, the fake accounts, the murders — I have enough evidence to bury him. And when he falls, he's going to take everyone with him. His lawyers. His accountants. His political allies. Everyone who helped him cover up his crimes." Lila leaned forward. "You have a choice. You can go down with him. Or you can give me what I need and save yourself."
There was a long silence. Shaw studied her with the cold, calculating eyes of a man who'd spent his career weighing odds and calculating risks. Then he laughed — a short, humorless bark.
"You haven't changed at all, have you? Still the same self-righteous crusader. Still convinced that the truth will set you free." He stood and walked to the window. "Let me tell you something about the truth, Lila. The truth is a weapon. And Arthur Blackwood has more weapons than you can possibly imagine."
"Then tell me about them."
Shaw stared out at the artificial lagoon. The black swans were floating on its surface, motionless as statues. "Patricia Blackwood died in 2012. I wasn't representing Arthur at the time. But I read the police report. The accident investigation. The insurance settlement. She drove off a bridge in the middle of the night. No alcohol in her system. No drugs. No mechanical failure. The investigators were baffled."
"Were there any witnesses?"
"None. But there was a note. A suicide note, allegedly, found in Patricia's bedroom after she died. It said she couldn't bear to live with what she'd done."
"What had she done?"
"She'd been having an affair. With a man named Marcus Webb." Shaw turned to face her. "Yes, that Marcus Webb. The attorney who later sued Arthur over an easement violation and lost everything. The two of them had been involved for over a year. Patricia was planning to leave Arthur. The note said she couldn't go through with it."
Lila's mind raced. Marcus Webb. The civil litigator Leo had mentioned. The one who'd ended up driving a taxi after Arthur destroyed him. He'd been having an affair with Arthur's first wife. And Patricia had died in a car accident shortly before she was planning to leave her husband.
"Did anyone verify the note was actually hers?"
"The handwriting analysis was inconclusive. But Arthur had it. The police accepted it. The case was closed." Shaw returned to his desk. "Marcus Webb fell apart after Patricia died. He started drinking. He made mistakes in his cases. By the time he sued Arthur over the easement, he was a shadow of his former self. Arthur didn't destroy him. He destroyed himself."
"You believe that?"
"I believe Arthur Blackwood doesn't leave loose ends. Patricia was a loose end. Marcus Webb was a loose end. And now Margaret and Gerald are loose ends too." Shaw opened a drawer and withdrew a file folder. "You asked about potassium chloride. The batch that killed Clara Vance was manufactured by a subsidiary of Blackwood Security Systems. It was shipped to Greenfield Memorial Hospital six months before Clara was admitted. The shipment was authorized by a purchasing agent named Deborah Vance."
"The fake nurse."
"You know about her." Shaw raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. Most people don't look that closely."
"Most people aren't trying to keep an innocent woman out of prison."
"Eleanor Vance." Shaw opened the folder and spread its contents across his desk. "Let me tell you about Eleanor Vance, Lila. You think she's innocent. You think she's a victim. But the truth is more complicated than you realize."
Lila looked at the documents. Medical records. Financial statements. Photographs. A timeline stretching back years. "What is this?"
"This is the file Arthur Blackwood compiled on Eleanor Vance before she ever moved to Stonebrook. He started investigating her three years before she bought her house. Before she joined the HOA. Before she ever heard his name."
"Why?"
"Because Eleanor Vance is not who she claims to be." Shaw tapped a photograph of a young woman in a graduation gown. "Eleanor Vance was born Eleanor Cross. She changed her name when she was twenty-one. She has a criminal record under her birth name — petty theft, fraud, identity theft. She served eighteen months in a state correctional facility in Massachusetts."
Lila stared at the photograph. The woman looked like Eleanor, but younger. Softer. Less haunted. "I don't believe you."
"You don't have to believe me. The records speak for themselves." Shaw pushed a document across the desk. "Eleanor Cross was convicted of defrauding an elderly couple out of their life savings. She posed as a financial advisor, gained their trust, and emptied their accounts. The couple lost their home. The husband died of a heart attack six months later. Eleanor served her time and was released on parole. She violated her parole by leaving the state without permission. She changed her name to Eleanor Vance and moved to Vermont."
"Where Clara lived."
"Where Clara lived." Shaw leaned back. "Clara Vance was a high school English teacher. She was also the only person in the world who knew Eleanor's real identity. Eleanor moved in with her, took care of her during her illness, and was the sole beneficiary of her life insurance policy. A policy worth three hundred thousand dollars."
"You're saying Eleanor killed her own sister for insurance money?"
"I'm saying that Eleanor Vance has a history of gaining people's trust and then exploiting them. Clara Vance died of a potassium chloride overdose. Eleanor was her primary caregiver. Eleanor administered her medications. Eleanor had access to the drugs that killed her." Shaw's eyes were cold. "And now Eleanor is accused of killing two more people who stood in her way. Doesn't that strike you as a pattern?"
Lila's hands were trembling. She forced them to steady. "If Eleanor killed Clara, why would Arthur have been watching? Why would he have planted a fake nurse in the hospital? Why would he have compiled years of surveillance on her?"
"Because Arthur Blackwood doesn't just destroy people. He collects them. He finds people with secrets, and he keeps those secrets as leverage. He was watching Eleanor because he knew what she'd done, and he wanted to be able to prove it if he ever needed to." Shaw closed the folder. "Eleanor didn't move to Stonebrook by accident. She moved there because Arthur invited her. He offered her a house at a discounted price. He encouraged her to run for the HOA board. He wanted her close. Where he could control her."
"Then why the censure? Why the blackmail? Why frame her for murder?"
"Because Eleanor stopped being useful. She started asking questions. She started investigating his finances. She found out about the embezzlement, the fraud, the blackmail. And she threatened to expose him unless he paid her off." Shaw smiled grimly. "Eleanor Vance isn't a whistleblower, Lila. She's an extortionist. She tried to blackmail Arthur Blackwood. And Arthur Blackwood doesn't pay blackmail. He eliminates threats."
Lila stood up. Her legs felt unsteady. "I don't believe you. You've fabricated evidence before. You fabricated it in the capital case that nearly destroyed my career. Why should I believe anything you say?"
"Because this time, I'm not fabricating anything." Shaw pushed the folder toward her. "Take it. Verify every document. Check every record. Every photograph. Every arrest report. It's all real. And when you're done, ask yourself why Eleanor never told you about her criminal record. Why she never mentioned that she changed her name. Why she never explained how she could afford a house in Stonebrook on a part-time consultant's salary."
Lila took the folder. It felt heavier than it should have.
"There's one more thing," Shaw said as she turned to leave. "The flash drive. The one Margaret gave Eleanor. The one that went missing after the censure vote. Arthur has it. He's had it since the day it disappeared. And do you know what's on it?"
"What?"
"Nothing. It's blank. It always was. Margaret never had any evidence. She was a sick woman, Lila. Paranoid. Delusional. She imagined conspiracies that didn't exist. She gave Eleanor an empty flash drive and convinced her it contained proof of Arthur's crimes. And Eleanor believed her, because Eleanor wanted to believe. Because Eleanor needed leverage. Because Eleanor was planning to destroy Arthur Blackwood from the moment she arrived in Stonebrook."
Lila walked to the door, the folder clutched against her chest. At the threshold, she paused. "Why are you telling me this, Harrington? Why help me now?"
"Because you're right about one thing." Shaw's expression was unreadable. "Arthur Blackwood is going down. I can see the cracks forming. I can see the walls closing in. And when a ship is sinking, a smart man doesn't go down with it. He finds a lifeboat."
"You're abandoning him?"
"I'm protecting myself. There's a difference." Shaw turned back to the window. "I wasn't involved in Clara's death. I wasn't involved in Patricia's death. I wasn't involved in what happened at the gala. I've done questionable things in my career, Lila, but I'm not a killer. And I'm not going to let Arthur Blackwood drag me into his grave."
Lila left the office and rode the elevator down in silence, the folder burning in her hands. The mirror walls reflected her from a dozen angles, and in every reflection, she looked smaller than she had when she'd arrived.
When she reached her car, she called Leo.
"I need you to verify something. Eleanor Vance. Birth name Eleanor Cross. Criminal record in Massachusetts. Fraud, theft, identity theft. She served eighteen months and changed her name after release."
Leo was quiet for a moment. "I'll look into it. But Lila, if this is true—"
"Then my client has been lying to me from the beginning. Then everything I thought I knew about this case is wrong." She stared at the folder on the passenger seat. "But I need to know the truth, Leo. Whatever it is."
She hung up and sat in the parking lot, watching the sun climb higher over Stonebrook's artificial lagoon. The black swans were still there, floating motionless on the surface, beautiful and sterile and trapped.
Just like everyone else in this town.
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