Chapter 9 - The Final Chess Move
The sun was setting behind the city skyline, casting long, bruised shadows across the brick facade of the industrial park on the edge of town.
The Maybach rolled to a smooth halt outside Unit 407—a nondescript, steel-reinforced storage garage with a glowing keypad lock. Two of Marcus’s towering private security guards stood on either side of the roll-up door, their arms crossed over their dark suits.
Marcus and I stepped out of the car, the cool evening wind snapping our coats against our legs.
"Are you ready for this, Clara?" Marcus asked, glancing down at me.
"I've been ready since seven this morning," I replied, smoothing my cuffs. "Let's open the box."
Marcus punched a ten-digit code into the keypad. With a loud, mechanical clack, the heavy steel roll-up door began to groan upward, revealing the dark interior of the storage unit.
Illuminated by a single overhead bulb, sitting tied to a metal folding chair with industrial zip-ties and a strip of gray duct tape plastered across his mouth, was my husband.
Julian’s designer polo shirt was stained with dirt and dried blood. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and bulging with sheer, unadulterated terror as the light hit his face. When he saw me standing beside his brother, framed by the open garage door, a muffled, strangled scream tore from behind the duct tape:
“Mmm-mmph! Mmm-clara-mmm!”
I walked slowly into the cold concrete garage, stopping three feet away from him. I crossed my arms, looking down at the man who had tried to frame me for murder, the man who had traded our marriage for a younger, greedier partner in crime.
Marcus stepped forward, gripping the edge of the duct tape. With a sharp, merciless yank, he ripped it straight off Julian’s face.
"Aghhh! Son of a bitch!" Julian howled, tears springing to his eyes as his raw skin burned. He gasped for air, coughing violently before locking his terrified eyes on mine. "Clara! Clara, thank God! You have to help me! Elena... Elena is insane! She hit me, she kidnapped me, she tried to kill me!"
I tilted my head, looking at him with absolute, clinical detachment. "Is that right, Julian? Because according to the police, you were the one who tried to fake your own death, frame me for murder, and cash out a four-million-dollar life insurance policy."
Julian’s face went completely slack. The color drained from his skin, leaving him looking like a ghost. "How... how do you know about that?"
"Rule number one, Julian," I said softly, stepping in close so he could smell the expensive Bulgarian rose perfume he had accused of framing him. "Never underestimate a woman whoarchitected her own empire while you were busy playing poker."
Marcus pulled his smartphone from his pocket, dialing a pre-programmed number on speaker. Within three rings, Detective Miller’s gruff voice answered on the other end:
May you like
“Vance. Talk to me.”
"Detective Miller," Marcus announced smoothly, holding the phone up so Julian could hear every single word. "This is Marcus Vance. My security detail has just secured the missing party in the Route 9 investigation. We are currently standing at Unit 407 on Industrial Parkway. You might want to dispatch a meat wagon and some cuffs. My brother has a rather lengthy confession he's dying to share with you."
