Chapter 2 - The Widower’s ChampagneThree hundred miles away in downtown Denver, Ethan Vance was pouring a glass of Dom Pérignon vintage champagne.
The penthouse apartment—a sprawling three-story glass-and-steel monstrosity overlooking the city skyline—was entirely paid for by the first installment of my life insurance payout. In the living room, Brittany was lounging on a custom Italian leather sofa, draped in a silk designer robe, scrolling through luxury interior design catalogs on her tablet.
"Do you believe it?" Brittany squealed, taking a sip of her own champagne as Ethan walked over to kiss the top of her head. "Fifty million. It cleared this morning. Ethan, we are officially fabulously, obscenely rich."
Ethan smiled, swirling the golden liquid in his crystal flute. He looked every bit the grieving, devastated widower. He had even worn a black velvet designer jacket to his meeting with the insurance adjusters yesterday, dabbing a fake tear from his eye as he recounted the 'horrific tragedy' of our snowy drive.
"I always knew Emily was worth something," Ethan chuckled darkly, sitting beside Brittany and pulling her close. "Though I have to admit, the Aspen mountains did most of the work. If the storm hadn't hit right then, staging it would have been a hell of a lot harder."
"Are you sure the body won't ever turn up?" Brittany asked, a sudden flicker of anxiety crossing her face as she set her glass down. "What if a hiker finds her?"
"Be serious, Brit," Ethan scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The ravine we were parked near drops twelve hundred feet into the Devil’s Throat glacier crevasse. Even if search teams go back out in the spring, the melting ice and shifting snowpacks will have crushed anything down there into dust. Emily is gone. She’s fish food."
"God, you're ruthless," Brittany laughed, leaning in to kiss his neck. "I love it."
Just then, the private elevator chime echoed through the penthouse.
Ding.
Ethan frowned, glancing at his watch. "Are you expecting the contractor?"
"No," Brittany said, sitting up straight. "The kitchen renovation team isn't scheduled until Tuesday."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. There was no contractor standing in the private foyer. Instead, a towering man in an impeccably tailored Brioni suit stood holding a sleek, black leather briefcase. He had an aura of absolute authority that made the air in the room instantly drop ten degrees.
Behind him stepped a woman in a sharp, slate-gray Chanel pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a severe bun, clutching a stack of heavy legal files.
Ethan stood up instantly, setting his champagne glass down with a sharp clink. "Excuse me? How did you get up here? This is a private residence. If you're reporters, I suggest you—"
"Mr. Ethan Vance?" the lead man interrupted. His voice was deep, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Yes? Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Marcus Vance—no relation," the man said dryly, stepping past the foyer threshold without an invitation. The female associate followed him, immediately placing a heavy manila folder onto the marble coffee table right in front of Brittany's feet. "I am the Senior Director of Special Investigations and Fraud Recovery for Cross National Insurance."
The color drained entirely from Ethan’s face. The blood rushed out of his cheeks so fast he looked like a corpse.
"Cross National..." Ethan stammered, his hands instantly trembling. "Wait. The claim... the claim was already approved and disbursed. I have the signed authorization forms right here in my office—"
"The claim," Marcus interrupted, stepping closer until he towered over Ethan, "has been placed under an immediate, mandatory Section 47 federal audit. Cross National Insurance has discovered a severe anomaly in the disbursement protocols."
Brittany jumped up from the sofa, her face twisting in panic. "An anomaly? What kind of anomaly? We followed every legal procedure! The death certificate was signed by the county coroner!"
Marcus turned his cold, calculating eyes toward Brittany. A slow, terrifying smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"That's the funny thing about death certificates, Ms. Hayes," Marcus said softly, pulling a single glossy photograph from his breast pocket and tossing it onto the table. "They usually require a body."
Ethan stared down at the photo.
It was a satellite thermal imaging scan taken of the Aspen ravine forty-eight hours ago. Highlighted in bright, pulsing red thermal signature was a single human heat source—alive, breathing, and resting comfortably inside a classified medical facility in downtown Denver.
Ethan’s knees buckled. He grabbed onto the edge of the marble table to keep from collapsing, his breath catching in his throat.
"No," Ethan choked out, shaking his head frantically. "No, that's impossible. She fell. I pushed her. I heard her hit the ledge! She fell into the gorge!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the apartment went dead silent.
Marcus didn't react with shock. He simply reached into his breast pocket again, clicked a button on a small silver digital recorder, and set it on the table.
A crystal-clear audio recording began to play back into the silent penthouse:
"No," Ethan choked out, shaking his head frantically. "No, that's impossible. She fell. I pushed her..."
May you like
Marcus looked down at the recording, then back up at the paralyzed, sweating couple.
"Thank you for your full cooperation, Mr. Vance," Marcus said smoothly, snapping his briefcase shut. "Confession makes our litigation department's job so much easier."
