Chapter 4 - THE SHADOW IN THE HALLWAY
The drive home was a blur of terror and cold, calculated fury.
I clutched the voice recorder Vanessa had given me. On it, Jonathan’s voice was chillingly detached: "Once the merger is complete, Katherine’s depression over her father’s death will get the better of her. A tragic slip on the stairs of her new, historic home. It’s perfect. The insurance payout will double our take."
They were monsters.
They had moved into my home, eaten my food, and smiled in my face while planning my murder.
When I arrived back at the house, it was dark. The storm clouds that had been gathering all afternoon finally broke, pouring heavy sheets of rain against the windows. The house looked dark, save for a single light burning in the living room.
I slipped my keys into the lock and turned it quietly.
I stepped into the hallway. The house was freezing. The thermostat had been turned down to fifty degrees.
"Jonathan?" I called out.
No answer.
"Diane?"
Still, silence.
I walked into the kitchen, my hand reaching into my purse to grip the voice recorder. I needed to get to my laptop, upload the audio files to Marcus, and call the police.
But as I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.
The ivory porcelain wedding china my father had bought me was shattered.
Every single piece.
The teacups, the plates, the bowls—smashed into thousands of sharp, glittering shards across the hardwood floor. In the center of the destruction lay a single sheet of paper.
I stepped carefully over the broken porcelain, my heart hammering in my chest, and picked up the paper. It was a printout of my bank statement, showing the seven hundred thousand dollars from my father’s estate.
Across the front of it, written in thick, red marker, was a single word:
LIAR.
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung shut behind me with a loud BANG.
I spun around.
Standing in the shadows of the dining room was Jonathan. He wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were dead, empty, and wild. In his hand, he held a heavy, brass fireplace poker.
"You went to see Thomas Reed," Jonathan said, his voice a low, terrifying growl.
My back hit the kitchen counter. My hand secretly reached into my pocket, pressing the record button on my phone.
"Jonathan, what is this?" I gasped, playing the terrified victim. "Why did you break the china?"
"Because you broke our trust, Katherine!" Diane’s voice hissed from the dark corner of the pantry. She stepped out, her face twisted in a mask of pure rage. "We saw you on the security feed. We saw you searching his briefcase. We know you went to Thomas’s house. What did he show you?"
"Nothing!" I cried out, tears finally springing to my eyes—partly out of fear, but mostly out of sheer hatred. "He just wanted to apologize for the camera! Jonathan, please, you're hurting me!"
"Don't lie to me!" Jonathan roared, stepping forward, the brass poker catching the light. "We know Vanessa came to see you today. Our private investigator saw you at the coffee shop. What did she give you?"
They had been following me.
"She told me everything," I whispered, dropping the act. I stood up straight, looking Jonathan dead in the eye. "She told me about Apex Holdings. She told me about Cabo. And she told me about the 'accident' you were planning for me."
Jonathan stopped, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, quickly replaced by a cold, arrogant smirk.
"So you know," he said, tapping the brass poker against his palm. "Well, that actually makes things much simpler. You see, Katherine, you’re right. This house was bought with your father's money. But it’s going to be my home. Yours and his legacy end tonight."
"You won't get away with this," I said, my voice steady. "The police—"
"The police will find a tragic accident," Diane interrupted, a sickening smile on her face. "A grieving widow, distraught over her father's death, who discovered her husband was having an affair. She confronted him, slipped on the wet stairs during a storm, and fell. A terrible, terrible tragedy."
Jonathan raised the poker.
"Sign the merger paper on the counter, Katherine," he commanded. "Sign it, and maybe I’ll make it quick."
May you like
"I’d rather die," I spat.
"That can be arranged," Jonathan whispered, lunging forward.
