Chapter 8
The ballroom seemed to tilt on its axis.
Dacre’s mouth opened, but only a dry, rattling gasp came out. "What? No! Agent Vance, we have an agreement! Section Four of the proffer agreement guarantees my immunity in exchange for the Crestwell shipping manifests!"
Agent Vance adjusted his spectacles with a gloved finger. "Your proffer was conditional on full disclosure of all violent felonies, Mr. Crestwell. You omitted the homicide of Clara Higgins from your sworn deposition. Furthermore, the evidence recovered from the Blackwood Basin property forty-five minutes ago by federal forensics includes your dental impression on the victim’s jewelry box and two sets of fingerprints on the lime containers."
Sybil screamed, lunging toward the federal agent. "What about my brother? Julian had nothing to do with this!"
Agent Vance did not flinch. "Julian Vane was arrested at Dulles International Airport twenty minutes ago attempting to board a private charter to Geneva. He has already signed a preliminary confession implicating both your father and Dacre in the misappropriation of three million dollars from the municipal port authority."
Senator Montgomery Vane stumbled backward, his hand flying to his chest, his face turning an alarming shade of gray. "Julian... confessed?"
"Your son is remarkably fragile under interrogation, Senator," Ronan remarked from the center of the floor.
Dacre turned toward his father, horror and dawning realization washing over his battered features. "You... you knew? You called the feds?"
"I don't call the federal government to settle family debts, Dacre," Ronan said, his voice dropping into that chilling, ancient cadence that had kept him alive for six decades. "Agent Vance’s task force was investigating you for six months. I simply removed my protection. I took my hand off your shoulder, and the wolves did what wolves do."
"Dad! Please!" Dacre wined as two federal agents forced his arms behind his back, the heavy steel handcuffs snapping shut around his bruised wrists with sharp, metallic clicks. "Don't let them take me! You have the judges! You can file an injunction! Dad! I'm your son!"
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Ronan looked at the man in handcuffs. He did not see an heir. He saw a stranger whose weakness had corrupted everything he touched.
"I had a son once," Ronan said softly. "His name was Dacre. He died the night he put his wife into a wooden trunk."
