Chapter 57 - The Ledger of 1982
By midnight, Julian was sitting at my kitchen table, a pot of black coffee between us, while Detective Miller paced near the fireplace, checking his service weapon and speaking in hurried whispers on his secure radio.
On the table lay the papers Julian had brought from Montreal. They were yellowed, brittle, smelling of damp cedar and camphor.
"This is the contract," Julian explained, his finger tracing a faint signature at the bottom of a carbon-copy deed dated October 14, 1982. "Walter didn't buy the ridge with Evelyn's inheritance. He bought it with money he borrowed from my grandfather, Henri Moreau. To secure the loan, Walter signed a reversionary clause: if the land was ever sold for industrial or municipal utility, the Moreau estate was to receive fifty-one percent of the gross proceeds, and the primary residence was to be held in trust for Claire's children."
"Which means you," Miller said, turning from the hearth.
"Which means me," Julian agreed. "Melissa found out about this clause when she was digging through Walter’s safe during his hospital stay. That’s why she sent Catherine to jail under her name—she needed three weeks of uninterrupted access to Henri's old lawyer in Montreal to buy out the lien before I found it. But she was too late. The lawyer died last spring, and the papers came directly to me as Claire’s sole surviving heir."
"She doesn't have the deed," I realized, the puzzle pieces clicking together with terrifying precision. "She only has the draft. She’s bluffing about Marcus."
"She isn't bluffing about Marcus being back," Miller interjected grimly. "My chief just called. Marcus Vance was spotted fifty minutes ago at the diner near Exit 41, driving a black Range Rover registered to an LLC out of Delaware. And he wasn't alone. He had Melissa in the passenger seat and two private security contractors in the back."
May you like
Outside, the wind abruptly died. A suffocating stillness dropped over the ridge.
Then, from the darkness down at the iron gate, the crunch of heavy tires broke through the silence. The twin beams of high-powered headlights cut across my kitchen windows, throwing the shadows of the copper beech tree violently against the ceiling.
