Chase Foundation. Your donations have not been going to helping the poverty-stricken or abused people of New Trenadie. No, your donations have been going to the transportation, selling, and profiteering of humans.”
“She’s telling the truth,” a man said from the back of the room. Everett Cavendish raised his glass. “My father admitted to me—right before I killed him—that he planned to sell me to Antonia de Silva. That her contact here in New Trenadie was getting ready to give her a big shipment. I found emails between my father and Winslow Chase setting up the deal.” Everett slammed his alcohol back. “What’s even worse? I could name no fewer than fifty men and women in this room tonight who were part of the whole thing in some way, shape, or form.”
From the back of the room, Jerrod motioned for two officers to take Everett into custody. He pointed at me. Pointed at his watch.
I nodded. “That wasn’t on my agenda for the evening, but it’s always nice to have backup, am I right?”
The room was silent. Tough crowd now that their sins were being shoved in their faces. Oh well. It was going to get a lot worse.
“Since the rich and entitled of New Trenadie can’t be bothered to follow the law, we’ve brought the law to you. And just so you know who you’re going to jail for, we’ve created a different presentation. Every year you all stand around and congratulate yourself for your generosity to the Chase Foundation through the Celebration of Victory presentation. Tonight, we have a different Celebration of Victory, and it’s certainly not yours.”
I swallowed again. Wished I had some water or something. I shook back my shoulders. It didn’t matter if my throat was dry. I was saying these names.
“Joining me tonight is Dr. Jessa Sweeten. She’ll be reading the causes of death for the seventy-three victims of Dr. Ethan Embry. I will be reading their names. The friend who helped pull me from the ashes of the devastation of my marriage, will be reading the victims’ birth and death dates.”
“This is an outrage!”
“You can’t keep us here!”
“Where are the authorities? I demand my attorney!”
Shouts and cries of injustice and wrongdoing sounded through the vast space. Men and women who had just moments ago been participating in some ridiculous audience participation gambit because they thought I’d landed a rich new guy. They were the same who had availed themselves of Winslow’s services. I made sure to keep track of the familiar names and faces.
“Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouths,” I said it softly.
The room went quiet as a tomb.
“You will all be standing through this reading. For those of you who are innocent, this is to teach you to pick better associates. For those of you who are guilty, this is to teach you that you are not above the law. We have irrefutable evidence that condemns each and every one of you.”
Jessa came up on stage, a glass of water in her hand. I could have kissed her. I took it from her, took a drink.
“We have the New Trenadie police department waiting to escort the guilty to the police station. Now shut your fucking mouths and respect the dead women and girls you helped kill.”
Chapter 41 – Ryker
My chest swelled with pride as Willow, Jessa, and Tali all gathered on the stage.
“Taylor Pankoswki, age fourteen,” Willow said, her voice strong. A picture showed on the screen behind us. A young girl who had seen too much life in her years. Her blue eyes were hazy, her brown hair hung in straggles down her face.
A woman in the crowd screamed. “That’s my baby. That monster had my baby?”
“Born January 14, 2006. Died –”
The woman shouted and wailed.
Tali’s fists clenched. “Died June 28, 2019.”
“Cause of death: traumatic blood loss,” Jessa said.
The woman collapsed into tears and grief. Several around her either moved to help comfort her or stepped away. Their gazes lowered, their shoulders hunched.
The guilty would out themselves by the time this was done.
The next picture was displayed. The group of gathered monsters and innocents sucked in a collective breath. “Marigold Lightfoot, age fifty-five.” Willow didn’t take her gaze off the crowd. Blue eyes, red hair, rosy cheeks, and a pretty smile shone from a face that had been snuffed out too early.
“Born June 3, 1965. Died April 19, 2016.”
“Cause of death: traumatic blood loss.”
The three women who recited the statistics, gave the victims back their names, never faltered in their duties. The woman at