Chapter 2 - The Red Wax Seal
Lauren grabbed her phone before the third ring could echo through the restaurant, shoving it into her leather clutch.
She stood up from the booth so quickly that her knee clipped the underside of the mahogany table, rattling the wine glasses.
Several patrons turned their heads, their polite dinner conversations paused by the sudden commotion.
"Mark, please," she plead, her eyes wide with real, unadulterated terror. "If you ever loved me, get up and walk to the car."
I threw three hundred-dollar bills onto the tablecloth, ignoring the confused stare of the host as I followed her through the double doors.
The cool night breeze hit my face like ice water, but the heat burning behind my ribs didn't subside.
We walked rapidly across the wet asphalt toward my SUV, the city traffic humming in the distance like a warning siren.
I unlocked the vehicle, and the moment the doors clicked shut, I engaged the central locks.
The cabin was pitch black except for the dashboard console glowing in soft blue hues.
"Talk," I commanded, turning to face her in the passenger seat. "Before I drive straight to the police station."
Lauren locked her trembling fingers together in her lap, tears finally spilling over her mascara.
"Richard is selling everything, Mark," she said, her voice shaking violently. "The shipping docks, the grandfathered timber land, all of it."
"Richard is the estate executor," I shot back, frustration lacing every word. "Father named him in the probate court."
"Because Richard forged the codicil two weeks before your father died in hospice!" Lauren shouted, turning to look directly at me.
The confession hung in the enclosed air of the car, heavy and toxic.
"What did you just say?" I asked, my grip on the steering wheel tightening until the leather creaked.
"Your father called me to the hospice facility four days before he lost consciousness," Lauren confessed, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"He knew Richard was intercepting his mail and tampering with the family trust accounts."
"Why you?" I demanded, hurt cutting deeper than the shock. "Why didn't my father call me? I was his son!"
"Because Richard had your phones tapped, Mark!" she cried, gripping my arm with desperate intensity.
"Your brother hired private investigators to track your car, your email, and your bank statements!"
"He told your father that if you ever found out about the offshore debts, Richard would trigger the acceleration clause and bankrupt your business!"
I stared at her, the pieces of the last two years beginning to assemble into a horrific, twisted puzzle.
My brother had always been the golden child, the sharp businessman who managed the family’s old wealth while I ran my industrial logistics firm.
Whenever I asked about the estate distributions, Richard had always waved a dismissive hand, promising that the probate court was just slow.
"Grant Mercer felt guilty," Lauren continued, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper.
"He helped Richard file the fake paperwork because Richard had leverage over his son’s gambling debts."
"Grant came to our house on Tuesday because he wanted to give me the real, original will before Richard could destroy it."
"Then who took the photos, Lauren?" I asked, cold dread creeping down my spine.
May you like
Lauren turned her face toward the dark window, her breath fogging the cold glass.
"Richard’s security man," she whispered. "He followed Grant to our front door."
