“Okay.”
“And Denise. Thank you.”
“I’m happy to help. She’s a pistol, your mom.”
“That she is,” Kathryn said, her chin trembling.
She hung up, trying to hold herself together. There was no choice. She’d leave tonight, for good, which meant she had to put her hands on the money. Now.
Since the day of Sylvia’s memorial service, Kathryn had been working on funding her escape. Every week, she siphoned money from her official salary and from the household account they allowed her. But she had to keep the diversion of funds small enough that they wouldn’t notice. And only some of it had gone to the secure offshore account in the name of Jenna Allen that could be accessed from anywhere. The rest went to Marie Allen and her granddaughter Grace in their New Hampshire hideout. The balance in the Jenna account was only about eighty thousand. Once they got where they were going, she’d never be able to work again.
It wouldn’t be enough.
The real haul was stashed in the bank account of Gloucester LLC, the entity that Ray had set up to launder their profits. The Gloucester account books were kept in a file cabinet in Nancy’s office, mixed in with court documents. After discovering them three years ago, she made contact with an insider at the bank and started paying for information, keeping tabs on the profit they were making off the ruins of Kathryn’s life. Seventeen million at last count. Eye-watering. Hers by right, and she planned to take it. But information was one thing, embezzlement another. The insider was a woman with a family, nervous, risk averse. Kathryn had in mind offering her half the proceeds to transfer the funds to her own offshore account. Would she do it? Maybe, maybe not, and even asking would be a huge risk.
A risk she would now be forced to take.
She texted the woman at the number they used, entering a code that included the number of the burner phone for a return call. Then she waited.
Over the sound of running water, she heard pounding on her office door.
“Judge, are you okay in there? We’re worried. Answer me, or I’ll call security!” Nancy shouted in that fake sweet voice that made Kathryn’s skin crawl. Fuck that woman to hell and back.
The burner phone rang.
“Jenna?”
“Hi, Andrea. Thanks for getting back to me so fast.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d be calling.”
Her stomach clenched. “Why?”
“Well, since they moved the money.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know?” Andrea said.
No, that’s why I pay you, idiot. But who was the idiot? Kathryn should have anticipated that they’d do this. Not because of Sylvia, who they assumed was dead and buried. Because the feds were breathing down their necks.
“Where did they move it to?” she said.
“An account in the Caymans. Whether it’s still there, or got moved again, which would be a standard protocol, I have no visibility into.”
“Give me the information on that Caymans account, please.”
Kathryn jotted it on a Kleenex and hung up. She knew what kind of bank that was. She used one herself. It would be hardened against law enforcement, resistant to subpoenas, suspicious of anyone who called asking questions. She wouldn’t get anywhere with them. And if magically she could, it would take months or years. Not overnight. The eighty grand she had, plus whatever she could sell that wasn’t nailed down—jewelry, a few paintings, the SUV—wouldn’t get her far. It was plane fare, then rent and food for a year, two at best, even in a cheap country. The Gloucester money was gone, and with it, her escape plan.
She couldn’t afford to disappear to a foreign country, it was that simple. But she couldn’t stay here either.
That left WITSEC—the federal witness protection program. She didn’t trust them, and that was the least of the problems. The feds didn’t just set you up with a false identity because you asked nicely. Qualifying for WITSEC was a long, complicated process. She’d have to turn herself in to Brooke Lee, face charges, plead guilty. They’d want her to testify. If something went wrong with the testimony, that guilty plea would be hanging over her head, meaning they could lock her up, and she’d have no recourse.
Grace would be sent to foster care. Or worse, somehow Nancy would get her claws on her.
There had to be another way. But if there was, she couldn’t think of it.
Someone was knocking on the bathroom door. Kathryn crumpled the Kleenex and flushed it down the toilet.
“Uh, Judge Conroy, ma’am? Curtis from the marshals. Everything okay in there?”