Chapter 3 - The Premature Feast
Twelve hours after the black SUV sank into the bay, the rain cleared into a cold, pale morning.
Inside the old salt marsh pumping station, Mason adjusted the rabbit-ear antenna of an old battery-operated television monitor.
The local news anchor appeared on the grainy screen, standing on the muddy embankment of Route 17 where our car had crashed.
Behind the reporter, rescue cranes were lifting the mangled guardrail while red emergency lights flashed against the water.
Then the camera cut to Julian standing in front of the maritime county police headquarters.
He wore a black woolen overcoat, his eyes bloodshot, his dark hair disheveled in an image of absolute despair.
Two officers supported his arms as he stepped up to the forest of press microphones.
Julian wept openly into the cameras, burying his face in his hands before finding the voice to speak.
He told the reporters that a deer had darted across the asphalt, causing the vehicle to hydroplane on the slick curve.
He sobbed as he described how he desperately smashed his hands against the submerged windows, trying to pull his beloved wife and brother from the freezing water.
He showed his scraped, bruised knuckles to the cameras as proof of his frantic rescue attempt.
I stared at the screen, remembering with sickening clarity how those exact knuckles had casually steered us off the cliff without hesitation.
Julian declared to the media that the love of his life was gone, and that he would spend the rest of his days honoring Valerie’s charitable legacy.
Standing just behind his shoulder was Chloe, dressed in an oversized black coat and weeping into an embroidered handkerchief.
She placed a comforting hand on Julian’s back, projecting the image of a devoted sister devastated by unimaginable loss.
The television anchor announced that county dive teams were still searching the bay, but heavy currents likely washed the bodies out toward the Atlantic.
Mason switched off the monitor, plunging the damp room back into heavy silence.
He looked at me, waiting to see if my grief would paralyze my will to fight.
The tears that had burned my eyes during the night were completely gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
I asked Mason where Julian and Chloe would go after the press conference.
Mason pulled up an old floor plan of our family penthouse in downtown Norfolk, which he had mapped out months prior.
He explained that Julian had already scheduled an emergency executive board meeting for the following afternoon.
Julian intended to present an expedited probate filing to assume temporary control of Sterling Maritime before the search teams even found our vehicle.
Mason had installed a hidden audio frequency scanner inside the penthouse heating vents six months ago, suspecting that Julian was leaking company secrets.
He handed me a pair of radio headphones and plugged the receiver into a small amplifier.
A static hiss filled the line, followed by the crisp sound of a popping champagne cork.
Chloe’s melodic, mocking laugh echoed through the headphones like a slap across my face.
Her voice was crystal clear, completely devoid of the trembling sorrow she had displayed on television thirty minutes earlier.
She asked Julian how long they had to wait before they could redecorate the master bedroom and throw out all of Valerie’s clothes.
Julian’s voice responded, warm, relaxed, and brimming with smug satisfaction.
He told Chloe that the decorators could come the moment the provisional death decree was signed by the probate judge on Friday.
He laughed as he poured another glass, boasting about how easy it had been to wire the seatbelt while I was taking a shower before our trip.
He called me a naive, sentimental fool who believed that working hard at the docks was enough to keep a husband satisfied.
Chloe giggled, asking about Mason’s room and what they should do with all his medical equipment.
Julian answered that the junk would be dumped into the nearest scrap metal yard by Monday morning.
Then another voice joined the conversation inside the penthouse—a woman whose cold tone I recognized from my childhood nightmares.
It was Evelyn Vance, Chloe’s mother and my late father’s former mistress.
Evelyn warned Julian not to celebrate until the company's master legal trust was formally transitioned into his name.
She reminded him that old Arthur Pendleton, the family attorney who drafted my father's original will, was notoriously stubborn.
Arthur would not release the primary controlling shares without a fight, even with Valerie presumed dead.
Julian replied that Arthur was an old man with a weak heart who could easily be pushed aside or silenced if he caused trouble.
I pulled the headphones from my ears, my hands trembling not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated fury.
For three years, I had treated Chloe like my own flesh and blood, giving her an executive allowance and welcoming her into my home.
I had loved Julian with every fiber of my being, believing our marriage was built on mutual trust and shared devotion.
They had not just attempted to end my life; they were laughing over my empty shoes while planning their lavish future on my family's grave.
I turned to Mason, who was already assembling a kit of burner phones, forged identification cards, and black tactical clothing.
May you like
I told my brother that Julian had planned my funeral with great precision.
Now, it was our turn to plan his.
