Chapter 3 - The Second ConspiratorSlowly, holding Leo tightly against my chest with my left arm, I spun around, my right hand instinctively dropping to my side, searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon.
The heavy glass French doors, which Clara had supposedly locked hours ago, swung open on silent brass hinges.
A cool gust of autumn wind swept into the drawing room, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine needles. Framed in the doorway stood a tall, broad-shouldered figure wrapped in a dark cashmere overcoat. The collar was turned up against the wind, casting his face in shadow. But as he stepped over the threshold and into the warm amber light of the chandelier, the blood in my veins turned to ice.
Julian Vance.
My chief financial officer. My trusted confidant. The man who had managed my corporate trust, handled the estate’s legal accounts, and stood beside me at the gravesite five years ago, holding a black umbrella over my head while I wept over an empty wooden box.
Julian stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes darted from the gaping hole in the drywall, to Clara cowering on the marble floor in her dust-smeared dress, and finally, to me—holding a living, breathing Leo in my arms.
For three agonizing seconds, nobody breathed.
Then, Julian’s expression shifted. The polite, deferential corporate mask he wore every day in the boardroom dissolved, replaced by a cold, calculating hardness. He didn't look surprised. He looked like a general who had just realized his flank had been compromised.
"Well," Julian said smoothly, his voice dropping into a calm, conversational baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. "I wondered how long that drywall would hold up against your amateur swinging, Arthur. Termites are terrible this time of year."
"Julian," I whispered, the name tasting like ash in my mouth. "You."
"Me," Julian confirmed without a shred of remorse. He casually unbuttoned his overcoat, reaching inside his breast pocket. "You know, Arthur, you really should invest in better contractors. We told Clara that five-ply pine was too thin for a permanent partition, but she insisted you were too cheap to check the structural integrity of the west wing."
"You bastard," I snarled, taking a step forward.
"Ah, ah, ah," Julian interrupted, his hand emerging from his coat holding a sleek, matte-black Walther PPK fitted with a heavy cylindrical suppressor. He leveled the barrel directly at my chest with terrifying nonchalance. "Let’s not do anything rash, Arthur. You’ve spent five years mourning a ghost. It would be a terrible shame if you actually became one tonight, right before you got to know your son again."
Leo whimpered against my shoulder, burying his face deeper into my coat. "Daddy, he's the bad man. He's the one who helped Aunt Clara put the boards up."
Julian glanced briefly at the boy, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his face. "Pesky kid. I told Clara we should have sent him to the boarding school in Vermont under an alias. But she was sentimental. Wanted him close. Family ties and all that romantic nonsense."
"Sentimental?" Clara shrieked from the floor, scrambling to her feet, her voice cracking with hysteria. "I didn't want him dead, Julian! You were the one who wanted the entire estate liquidated! You said Arthur would never sign over the corporate trust while he had a legal heir!"
Julian didn't even look at her. "Shut up, Clara. You’re unraveling, and you’re boring me."
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"You used me," Clara gasped, her hands flying to her face as the full, horrific magnitude of her betrayal crashed down upon her. "You promised we would just hide him until Arthur signed the merger papers! You promised no one would get hurt!"
"People always get hurt when money is involved, Clara," Julian sighed, his finger resting lightly on the trigger of the suppressed pistol. "And right now, Arthur is holding a very inconvenient piece of evidence that ruins our entire five-year corporate takeover plan."
