Part 2: The Dead Man Walking
“Tony,” I said, my voice so dangerously calm it didn't sound like my own. “Burn that footage onto a flash drive.”
Tony didn't ask questions.
His hands flew across the keyboard, the progress bar on the screen inching toward completion.
“Do not speak to anyone,” I commanded, grabbing the flash drive the second it popped out. “Lock the doors. Go home. If anyone asks, you haven't seen me.”
I sprinted up the concrete stairs, the heavy metal door slamming behind me.
The storm had finally broken outside.
Rain lashed against the windshield of my Mercedes as I tore out of the parking lot.
I ignored the speed limits.
I ignored the red lights.
The lake house was a two-hour drive into the isolated mountains of the state park.
It was a place I had bought for peace.
A place with no cell service, no neighbors, and a local police department that was thirty miles away.
Beatrice knew exactly what she was doing.
She had chosen the perfect slaughterhouse.
I connected my phone to the car’s Bluetooth and dialed my head of security, a former Marine named Vance.
“Vance,” I barked over the roaring engine. “I need you at the mountain lake house. Bring your weapon. And call the state troopers. Tell them there is an active homicide in progress.”
“Sir? Who is the target?” Vance asked, instantly alert.
“My son,” I choked out, slamming the accelerator to the floor. “And maybe me.”
I hung up and dialed Terrence again.
Voicemail.
I dialed the landline at the lake house.
It rang endlessly into the dark void.
My mind raced, piecing together twenty years of calculated deceit.
Beatrice comforting me at my first wife’s funeral.
Beatrice offering to handle the family finances because I was "working too hard."
Beatrice introducing Terrence to the sweet, innocent girl from her church choir, Megan.
It was a twenty-year long con.
She had harvested my wealth, lived like a queen, and now she was ready to liquidate the assets and disappear.
The rain turned into a blinding sheet of water as I began the steep ascent up the mountain road.
The tires slipped on the wet asphalt, the rear of the car fishtailing near the edge of a hundred-foot drop.
I didn't slow down.
If I died on this road, Terrence died with me.
By the time I reached the gravel driveway of the lake house, the sun had completely vanished.
The property was swallowed in absolute darkness, save for the warm, golden light spilling from the massive living room windows.
I killed the headlights.
I parked the car a quarter-mile down the road, hiding it behind a grove of pine trees.
I opened the glove compartment and pulled out the heavy, steel Smith & Wesson revolver I always kept for emergencies.
I checked the cylinder.
Fully loaded.
I stepped out into the freezing rain, the icy water instantly soaking through my suit.
I moved silently through the dense woods, my leather shoes sinking into the mud.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped animal.
Every shadow looked like a threat.
Every snap of a branch sounded like a gunshot.
When I finally reached the edge of the wooden wrap-around porch, I crouched below the window frame.
I slowly raised my head and peered through the glass.
The living room was supposed to be a romantic honeymoon suite.
Rose petals were scattered across the Persian rug.
A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace.
And lying face down in the center of the room...
Was Terrence.
His arm was outstretched, his fingers curled into stiff claws.
A shattered crystal champagne flute lay inches from his motionless hand.
“No,” I breathed, the sound tearing my throat apart.
I scanned the room.
Megan was sitting comfortably on the leather sofa, her legs crossed.
She was wearing silk pajamas.
Her stomach was completely flat.
She was casually scrolling through her phone, not even glancing at the body of her newlywed husband on the floor.
A moment later, Beatrice walked into the room from the kitchen.
She wasn't in the city anymore.
She had driven up behind them.
She was holding a clipboard and a stack of legal documents.
Beatrice looked down at Terrence, nudged his ribs with the toe of her designer heel, and smiled.
“Is he gone?” Megan asked, without looking up from her phone.
“His pulse stopped three minutes ago,” Beatrice said cheerfully. “The rural doctor will rule it an undetected congenital heart defect. Tragic.”
Beatrice set the clipboard on the coffee table.
“Now,” my wife said, pulling a pen from her pocket. “Sign the life insurance claim, the property transfer, and the widow’s inheritance tax forms.”
I didn't wait.
I didn't hesitate.
I stood up, raised my heavy steel boot, and kicked the front door with everything I had.
The deadbolt snapped like a dry twig.
The heavy oak door smashed against the wall, shattering the hallway mirror.
Beatrice screamed, dropping the clipboard.
Megan jumped up from the sofa, her phone clattering to the floor.
May you like
I stepped into the light, completely soaked in rain, holding the revolver leveled directly at my wife’s chest.
“Don't bother signing,” I said, my voice echoing like thunder in the silent house. “The ink won't be valid in hell.”
