CHAPTER 6
By five PM, federal agents served Marcus and me with formal grand jury subpoenas, seizing our laptops, private servers, and personal cell phones right on the trading floor.
I walked out of my own building carrying a single cardboard box containing a few family photographs and a crystal paperweight my father had given me when I passed the bar exam.
Reporters from the Stamford Advocate and Wall Street Journal were already gathering on the sidewalk outside, flashing camera lenses through the glass doors.
I ducked through the side parking exit, drove aimlessly for two hours along the coastal highway, and finally found myself standing on the empty beach near our home in Greenwich.
The cold ocean wind whipped against my face as I stared out at the dark Atlantic waves crashing against the rocky shore.
Three months ago, Claire and I had walked along this exact stretch of sand, carrying newborn Noah wrapped tightly in a soft yellow woolen blanket.
I remembered how tired her eyes had looked back then, how she had gently asked if we could take a weekend trip together just to reconnect after the difficult delivery.
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I had lied to her that afternoon, telling her I had an urgent board conference in Chicago, when in reality I was flying Vanessa to a private villa in St. Barts.
I fell to my knees on the wet sand, clutching my chest as a dry, painful sob tore through my throat, drowning out the sound of the ocean waves.
