Chapter 5 - The Ledger and the Lie
Friday afternoon sunlight cut through the west terrace doors, casting warm, invisible beams across the floorboards. I sat at my mahogany desk, the heavy leather-bound financial ledgers open before me. My fingers traced the embossed lettering on the cover.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway—heavy, confident, and utterly arrogant.
"Grant, old man," Daniel Cross’s voice boomed as he pushed the study door open without knocking. "Still playing solitaire in the dark, I see."
Daniel was forty-five, impeccably tailored, smelling of expensive bourbon and sea salt. He dropped a heavy briefcase onto the sofa with a sharp thud.
"The waterfront is booming, Grant," Daniel continued, pulling up a chair directly across from my desk. "Port traffic is up forty percent since we streamlined the shipping routes. If you could still see the charts, you'd be proud of what I’ve built with your legacy."
I didn’t move. I kept my face turned slightly downward, playing the part of the broken, dependent patriarch.
"My legacy, Daniel?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. "Or yours?"
Daniel laughed, a rich, casual sound. "Come on, Grant. Don't start that again. You've got everything you need here—wealth, comfort, complete security. What does it matter who signs the bills?"
My fingers traced a specific line in the financial ledger—a string of offshore shell company transfers dating back precisely five years, right to the week of the Pier 17 explosion.
"Tell me about Caroline and Emma, Daniel," I said softly.
The room’s atmosphere shifted instantly. The casual warmth vanished, replaced by a sudden, razor-sharp silence.
"We’ve been over this a thousand times, Grant," Daniel said, his voice hardening. "The blast vaporized the office. There wasn't enough left for an open-casket service. I handled everything so you wouldn't have to suffer through the horror."
"You handled everything," I repeated. I reached out slowly and pushed the ledger across the desk toward him. "Including the twenty million dollars transferred from my personal offshore accounts to a Swiss medical trust on the exact day of the funeral?"
Daniel didn't move. I heard the sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing.
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"What did you say?" he whispered, all pretense of warmth gone.
"I said," I replied, standing up slowly from my chair, squaring my shoulders to my full height, "you’re a terrible accountant, Daniel. And an even worse murderer."
