Chapter 4 - THE CEMETERY OF WIDOWSThe temperature in the federal interrogation room at Quantico was set to sixty degrees, but Garrick Vance was sweating through his expensive tailored shirt.
His jacket had been confiscated. His golden Rolex was gone, replaced by a yellow plastic wristband bearing his federal inmate processing number. His carefully coiffed hair was unraveled, hanging in limp, greasy strands across his forehead.
Opposite him sat Ethan Reyes and myself. Between us on the steel table lay a single manila folder, four inches thick, stuffed with printed bank statements, autopsy reports, and high-resolution photographs.
Garrick leaned back in his chair, trying to maintain his arrogant posture, but his eyes darted nervously to the thick glass window on the far wall. He knew his brother Thomas was in a holding cell three doors down, facing federal conspiracy charges that carried a mandatory twenty-year minimum sentence.
"You think you've played a clever game, Sarah," Garrick said, his voice husky and raspy. "You threw some fancy federal badges around. You arrested my brother on a misunderstanding. But my lead defense council is currently in front of a federal judge in D.C. filing a writ of habeas corpus. I'll be out on bond by five o'clock."
"No, you won't, Garrick," I said quietly, opening the folder.
I slid the first photograph across the metallic surface of the table.
It was a picture of a smiling, seventy-two-year-old woman with silver hair standing in front of a grand Victorian home in Richmond, Virginia.
"Her name was Eleanor Vance—formerly Eleanor Vance-Montgomery," I said, my voice steady and measured. "You married her six years ago. Eighteen months after the wedding, she suffered a sudden, tragic cardiac arrest in her home. She left her entire forty-million-dollar real estate portfolio to you."
Garrick didn't look at the photo. "She was an old woman with a weak heart. It was a tragedy. I mourned her deeply."
I slid a second photograph across the table.
Another woman, sixty-eight years old, sitting on the deck of a yacht in Miami.
"Margaret Hayes," I continued. "Married you four years ago. Fourteen months after the wedding, she drowned in her swimming pool. The local coroner ruled it an accidental drowning exacerbated by high doses of prescription sedatives. She left you three commercial properties and two million dollars in liquid stock."
Garrick’s jaw muscles twitched, but he remained silent.
"Shall I go on?" I asked, pulling out four more photographs, laying them out in a neat, symmetrical grid across the cold table. "Evelyn Reed. Beatrice Campbell. Rose Thorn. Martha Gable. Six women, Garrick. All wealthy, all recent widows, all living alone in grand estates. You romanced them. You isolated them from their families. You forced them to sign power-of-attorney documents... and then, within two years, every single one of them died under 'unfortunate' circumstances."
"This is ridiculous speculation!" Garrick suddenly barked, slamming his cuffed hands onto the steel table with a sharp CLANG. "Every one of those deaths was investigated by local police and ruled natural or accidental! You can't charge me for having bad luck with my wives' health!"
"We couldn't," Ethan interrupted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, staring directly into Garrick’s eyes. "Until we decrypted the drive your brother tried to rescue from Clara's house last night."
Garrick froze. The color drained completely from his face, leaving behind a pale, waxy gray hue.
"You see, Garrick," Ethan continued, "you were meticulous. You kept digitized medical records of every single one of your late wives. You even kept logs of the specific pharmaceuticals you ordered through dark web vendors using cryptocurrency. Digital prescriptions for digitalis, suxamethonium, and synthetic insulin—compounds that disappear quickly from human tissue and mimic natural cardiac failure."
"That's... that's a lie," Garrick stammered, his eyes darting frantically between Ethan and me. "That drive was encrypted! You couldn't have broken the cipher!"
"Your brother carried the master key in his pocket when he came to burn down my mother's home," I said, leaning in until my face was only inches from his. "You were planning to make Clara victim number seven, weren't you? You got her to sign the deed modification on Monday. You had the power of attorney notarized by Arthur Miller. You were going to administer the final dose by the end of the month."
Garrick stared at me, his chest heaving up and down in rapid, shallow bursts. The illusion of the charming, polished gentleman had completely disintegrated. In its place was the raw, hideous essence of an apex predator backed into a corner.
"She was stupid," Garrick snarled, his voice dropping an octave into a guttural, terrifying rasps. "Clara was a weak, pathetic old woman who spent her days crying over your father's memory! She didn't deserve that house! She didn't deserve that money! I gave her a life! I gave her purpose! And she gave me garbage!"
"She gave you her trust," I said, my voice tight with controlled anger. "And you repaid her with bruises and blood on the kitchen floor."
"She belonged to me!" Garrick screamed, lunging forward across the table, his handcuffs clattering violently against the metal. "Everything she owned was mine! And if I can't have it, nobody will!"
Ethan immediately stood up and pressed the wall intercom button. "Guards. Take the prisoner back to his cell."
Two heavy set federal marshals opened the door and grabbed Garrick by the shoulders, wrenching him backward out of the chair.
As they dragged him toward the door, Garrick thrashing against their grip, he turned his head toward me, a sickening, manic grin spreading across his face.
"You think you've won, Sarah?" he laughed hysterically. "Check your mother's safehouse! Check it right now! You were so busy playing federal investigator here in Quantico... you forgot to check who was driving the delivery van this morning!"
My heart stopped. Cold terror, far worse than any gun pointed at my chest, gripped my spine.
I whipped out my phone, dialing the safehouse security line instantly.
May you like
The line rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then, the connection went dead.
