“And here is the truth that will break your heart, Arthur…”
I leaned across the table, my slate-gray eyes boring directly into his shriveled soul:
“You thought Julian evicting me from Parcel Nine today was your grand corporate extraction.”
“You thought leaving me without cleaning supplies was your masterstroke.”
“It wasn’t your masterstroke, Arthur.”
“It was our trap.”
Arthur Vance gasped, his knees trembling:
“What… what are you saying?!”
“Twelve years ago, military intelligence and naval security uncovered your sixty-billion-dollar Swiss syndicate,” I revealed, every word falling like an iron gavel:
“Under the 1944 Charter, the sovereign defense trust could only be liquidated and reclaimed if an act of *In Flagrante Treason* occurred on an active sovereign defense homestead.”
“I took that cleaning job.
I cleaned Aunt Eleanor’s house for eight years.
