Chapter 5 - The Resurrection
Brooke Ellis let out a strangled, animal shriek that echoed off the high glass ceiling.
Her hands gave out completely, sending the leather binders, legal packets, and corporate proxy forms scattering across the carpet in an explosion of loose paper.
Grant stumbled backward, his knees striking the swivel chair, his jaw hanging open as his eyes bugged out of his head.
He looked at me as if the floorboards of the grave had cracked open and disgorged an avenging angel.
“Hannah…?” Grant whispered, his voice thin, dry, and trembling with a terror so absolute that he began to hyperventilate. “No… no, that’s impossible. You were asleep. The storm doors were bolted from the outside!”
The words slipped from his lips before his panicked mind could stop them.
Across the table, Arthur Davis jumped to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at the CFO.
“You confessed!” Arthur shouted, his eyes blazing with fury. “You just admitted the doors were bolted!”
Grant clapped both hands over his mouth, realizing the fatal error he had just committed in front of seven board members, two federal marshals, and four homicide detectives.
I walked down the length of the conference table, holding Noah securely against my chest with my left arm, my right hand resting flat against the polished mahogany.
Every step pulled slightly on my healing surgical incision, but the pain was nothing compared to the intoxicating rush of total, absolute vindication.
“You told Brooke that if we died together, there wouldn't be a separate investigation, Grant,” I said, my voice echoing through the room with razor-sharp clarity. “You told her you could start over once the thirty-million-dollar policy paid out.”
Brooke backed toward the corner of the room, tears of hysteria ruining her mascara.
“It was Grant’s idea!” Brooke screamed, pointing frantically at her lover. “He planned the whole thing! He told me she was weak! He said she was ruining the company’s valuation! He promised me forty percent of the equity if I booked the private flight to the Bahamas!”
“Shut up, you stupid bitch!” Grant snarled, rounding on her with bared teeth, completely stripping away the smooth, cultured mask he had worn for five years.
“Don't bother turning on each other, children,” Marcus Vance spoke up, stepping to the head of the table and placing a heavy black aluminum case on the wood.
Marcus unlatched the case, spinning a digital monitor toward the board members.
“The black box from Grant’s luxury SUV was recovered from the airport hangar two hours ago,” Marcus announced to the room. “It recorded every second of the audio from the internal dashcam while they parked thirty yards from the burning cabin.”
He hit the playback button.
Grant’s voice crackled through the conference speakers, horrifyingly clear, chillingly casual:
“She’s awake. You said she wouldn't wake up.”
“They’ll blame the propane system. Once the thirty-million-dollar policy pays and her shares clear probate, we can start over. If they die together, there won't be a separate investigation.”
The five corrupt board members lowered their heads in sickening shame, pushing their signature pens as far away from themselves as possible.
Grant sank onto his knees on the carpet, pressing his forehead against the mahogany table, weeping in ragged, gasping sobs of ruined ambition.
“Hannah… please,” Grant wept, looking up at me with bloodshot, pleading eyes. “Think of our son! Think of our marriage! I was under so much financial pressure from the European creditors… I wasn't in my right mind!”
I stopped three feet from him, looking down at the creature who had kissed my forehead before setting fire to my bed.
May you like
I shifted Noah slightly, letting Grant see the tiny, perfect face of the boy he had sentenced to burn in the dark.
“Noah is a Vance, Grant,” I said softly, every word weighted with the finality of iron. “And he will never know your name.”
