Chapter 4 - The Fake Funeral and the Crocodile Tears of a Mourning Husband
Three days later, the historic Cathedral of St. John the Baptist in downtown Savannah was draped in black velvet.
Over four hundred prominent figures from the Georgia maritime industry, municipal politics, and high society filled the pews. Outside, television news vans lined the perimeter, broadcasting live coverage of the “Tragic Double Drowning of Shipyard Heiress Rosalind Sterling and Her Disabled Brother Tobias.”
At the front of the altar sat two polished mahogany caskets, draped in white lilies. Because the river current had supposedly swept the bodies downriver—a narrative Tobias had masterfully reinforced by hacking the state police sonar dispatch and feeding corrupted dive coordinates—the caskets were empty, symbolic vessels for a town in mourning.
Standing at the front of the sanctuary, dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray bespoke mourning suit, was Garrett Davenport.
He had mastered the performance of a lifetime.
His eyes were rimmed with red, his head bowed in theatrical, devastating sorrow. He clutched a linen handkerchief, dabbing away phantom tears as prominent state senators and shipping executives took turns grasping his hand, offering condolences on his unspeakable loss.
Sitting in the front family pew directly behind him was Penelope.
She was dressed in a sweeping black lace veil and a modest mourning gown that accentuated her rounded belly. She dabbed at her cheeks, occasionally letting out a delicate, trembling sob that drew sympathetic glances from the wealthy patrons around her.
High above the sanctuary, hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains of the private pipe organ loft on the third tier, Tobias and I watched the entire charade through high-powered optical binoculars.
Thanks to forty-eight hours of aggressive intravenous chelation therapy, the poison in my blood had been neutralized. The color had returned to my cheeks, my vision was crystal clear, and the weakness in my limbs had been replaced by a fierce, electric surge of vital energy.
I wore a dark tactical turtleneck, my hair pulled back into a severe braid, an encrypted earpiece nestled inside my ear canal.
“Look at him,” I murmured into the microphone, watching Garrett embrace the Mayor of Savannah. “He deserves an Academy Award.”
“Wait until you see his grand finale,” Tobias replied through the comms.
Down at the pulpit, the priest stepped aside, and Garrett slowly climbed the marble steps to deliver the eulogy.
Garrett placed both hands on the wooden lectern, took a long, trembling breath, and looked out across the tearful congregation with an expression of shattered, heroic grief.
“Rosalind was not just my wife,” Garrett began, his voice breaking with practiced, emotional precision. “She was the guiding light of my existence. Her dedication to the Sterling family legacy, to our workers at the docks, and to her beloved brother Tobias was unmatched in this city.”
He paused, wiping a tear from his cheek.
“In her final days, knowing the heavy burdens of her executive responsibilities, Rosalind shared a sacred dream with me. She wished for our two great maritime families—Sterling and Davenport—to unite under one banner, to build a future worthy of her father’s vision. And today, despite the agony tearing through my soul, I swear to honor her memory by leading Sterling Marine Works into a new dawn of prosperity for our upcoming child.”
Garrett looked down at Penelope, placing his hand over his heart.
Several women in the pews began weeping openly at the touching scene.
Beside me in the organ loft, Tobias tapped the screen of his handheld transmitter. “The probate hearing is scheduled for two o'clock this afternoon at the Chatham County Courthouse. Garrett has summoned the entire Sterling Board of Directors to execute the emergency succession proxy.”
“Is our legal team in position, Tobias?” I asked, adjusting the collar of my jacket.
“Marcus Hale and three senior partners from Hale & Montgomery arrived from Boston an hour ago,” Tobias smiled grimly. “They have the original 1998 Sterling Family Foundational Charter, the forensic toxicology reports, and the complete financial chain of custody.”
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I took one last look through the binoculars at Garrett’s smug, sanctimonious face as he walked down the altar steps to receive Penelope’s loving embrace.
“Let him celebrate his victory lunch, Tobias,” I said, turning toward the private fire stairwell. “At two o’clock, we crash the coronation.”
