Chapter 5: The Cheese in the Maze
“Ethan,” I said, injecting just enough fragile exhaustion into my voice to sound defeated. “I’ve been thinking. I want to honor your father’s legacy. Set up a meeting with your investors for Monday morning. I’ll come down to Calvin’s office.”
“Mom, that’s fantastic,” Ethan replied, his relief palpable. “I’ll make it entirely painless. I promise.”
“Actually,” I added, “could you stop by tomorrow morning? I need help moving some of your father’s heavier boxes out of the garage.”
“Of course. See you at ten.”
Saturday morning arrived. Ethan strolled into the kitchen wearing a casual cashmere sweater, looking every bit the devoted, grieving son. I poured him a cup of coffee, keeping my hands perfectly steady.
“I’ll be right back, honey,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “I need to grab the garage keys from the upstairs guest room.”
“Take your time, Mom.”
I walked upstairs, went into the guest room, and quietly closed the door. I pulled out my phone and opened the live feed to the microscopic motion-activated camera Martin had installed above the wardrobe in the master bedroom.
I watched the screen.
Thirty seconds later, Ethan slipped into the master bedroom. He moved with practiced, silent urgency. He approached the wardrobe. He didn’t hesitate; he wedged his shoulder against the oak and pushed. He knew exactly where the button was. He popped the panel open and vanished into the secret room.
On my phone screen, I watched my son stand in the center of his deceased father’s war room. I watched his eyes widen in terror as he processed the red string, the photos, the evidence.
But then, he saw the bait.
The manila folder sitting alone on the desk. He scrambled toward it, flipping it open. He read the fabricated memo about my declining mental state and impending surrender of power of attorney.
I watched his shoulders instantly relax. A smug, victorious smirk slithered onto his face. He whipped out his phone, snapped three photos of the fake document, and practically skipped out of the room, resetting the wardrobe perfectly behind him.
He walked back down to the kitchen, entirely unaware that the trap had just snapped shut around his throat.
Monday morning arrived bathed in a cold, steel-gray light.
I bypassed the conservative black mourning dresses in my closet. Instead, I pulled out a razor-sharp, charcoal-gray Armani suit—the exact suit I had worn when Arthur and I decimated our top competitor in a corporate buyout fifteen years ago. I applied a slash of crimson lipstick.
I didn’t look like a widow. I looked like a reckoning.
