Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Ledger
Forty-five minutes later, Marco returned through the side entrance, shaking the rain from his heavy wool coat before stepping onto the imported wool rug. He didn't speak in front of the guests; instead, he walked straight up to me and handed over two distinct items: a heavy manila folder bearing the seal of the county medical examiner, and a small, leather-bound journal that looked worn and water-damaged around the edges.
I opened the folder first, flipping past standard procedural forms until I reached the signature line of the attending physician. Dr. Alistair Vance. A name that instantly triggered a memory in the back of my mind—a private clinic in Manhattan known for handling discreet medical clearances for high-net-worth individuals who needed problems diagnosed away from public insurance registries.
“And the carriage house?” I asked Marco in a low murmur, keeping my back to the rest of the room.
“Cleaned out, sir,” Marco replied quietly, his eyes drifting briefly toward Vivienne, who stood rigid by the cold fireplace. “Housekeeping staff went through it two weeks after the funeral on Miss Vance’s direct orders. Every personal item belonging to Sofia was packed into industrial trash bags and hauled away to the municipal incinerator. Nothing left except the bare mattress.”
I felt the blood pound in my ears. Two weeks after the funeral. While the dirt on Sofia’s grave was still fresh, Vivienne had ordered her entire existence erased from the estate.
I opened the worn leather journal. It was Sofia’s personal diary. The pages were filled with neat, meticulous handwriting detailing grocery lists, cleaning schedules for the main dining hall, and small notes about Rosie’s milestones. But as I flipped toward the final entries written just days before her sudden death, the tone shifted drastically.
“Miss Vance came by the carriage house again today,” one entry read, the ink slightly smeared as if written in haste. “She noticed the lock box. She asked too many questions about the safe deposit key hidden behind the loose brick. I’m afraid of what she’ll do if she finds out what I’m holding for Mr. Damian.”
I stopped breathing. What I was holding for Mr. Damian.
I slowly raised my head and stared across the room at Vivienne. Her face had lost all its color, the expensive foundation unable to hide the sickly gray pallor creeping over her skin. She had seen the journal in my hand, and she knew the game was over.
“What did she leave in the safe deposit box, Vivienne?” I asked, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings, carrying clearly to every terrified guest sitting in the shadows.
Vivienne forced a brittle, defiant laugh, though her voice shook violently. “How should I know? I don’t keep track of the trash your servants hoard in holes in the wall!”
“Sofia wasn't hoarding trash,” I said, walking slowly toward her, each footstep sounding like a hammer blow against the floor. “She was holding something for me. Something you found when you searched her room. Something that proved her stroke wasn't a stroke at all.”
Marco stepped closer, blocking the doorway completely. The guests were frozen, realizing they were witnessing a crime scene unfold in real-time.
“You wanted my fortune, Vivienne,” I whispered, stopping mere inches from her face, towering over her as the terrifying reality crystallized in my mind. “You wanted the estate, the corporate holdings, the entire foundation. But Sofia found out about your corporate espionage, didn’t she? She found out how you were bleeding my accounts dry before we even married, and you realized the only way to keep her quiet was to permanently silence her.”
Vivienne’s eyes flashed with pure, unadulterated venom. The mask of aristocratic perfection shattered entirely, revealing the desperate predator beneath.
“She was just a maid!” Vivienne screamed, abandoning all pretense as she lunged toward me with her fingernails bared, aiming for my face.
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Marco intercepted her mid-air, pinning her arms behind her back with brutal, efficient force before she could land a blow. She thrashed wildly against him, her designer dress tearing at the seams, cursing my name with a foulness that shocked the silent room.
I didn't flinch. I simply looked down at the platinum ring on her finger—the dead woman’s ring—and knew that the night was only just beginning.
