Chapter 8 - We returned to Bayfront under police escort.Marcus met us at the entrance.
He looked terrified.
I had known him for twelve years.
I had never seen him like that.
“Where is it?”
He led us downstairs.
The server room was hidden behind a maintenance corridor.
Inside, rows of equipment hummed.
Marcus pointed to a computer.
“I found the file here.”
I opened it.
A digital copy of my death certificate was on screen.
The date of death was next Monday.
My name.
My date of birth.
My address.
Everything.
Except the signature.
I stared.
“Who created this?”
Marcus shook his head.
“The system says it was uploaded from your office.”
“My office?”
He nodded.
“Using your credentials.”
I looked at him.
“You have something to tell me.”
He swallowed.
“I didn't know about the death certificate.”
“But?”
“But I knew about the trust.”
I said nothing.
He looked ashamed.
“Raymond approached me years ago.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Why?”
“To help him access the venue's financial records.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand.”
Sabrina looked horrified.
“You sold our information?”
“I was desperate.”
I stepped closer.
“Who else?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Your accountant.”
“Eleanor?”
“No.”
Another name.
“Paul Grayson.”
My old accountant.
The man who had managed my father's estate.
I suddenly understood.
Paul had access to old financial records.
Victoria had access to our home.
Raymond had access to the scheme.
Marcus had access to Bayfront.
Someone had assembled every piece over decades.
But why kill me?
Because the trust had a clause.
My father had created a succession condition.
I opened the trust document again.
At the bottom was a sentence I had never noticed.
Upon verified death of the original trustee, control shall transfer to the named beneficiary only after all fraudulent claims are resolved.
They did not simply want me dead.
They needed my death to trigger access to the trust.
But there was a problem.
Sabrina was not the only beneficiary.
I kept reading.
Another name appeared.
Emily Hart.
Sabrina gasped.
“Why is she a beneficiary?”
I looked at the percentage.
Sabrina: 70%.
Emily: 30%.
I stared at the document.
Emily wasn't simply Sabrina's biological mother.
She was part of my father's plan.
“She knew.”
Sabrina frowned.
“Knew what?”
“That your grandfather was protecting both of you.”
Then I noticed another clause.
It was written in red ink.
The trust remains frozen if either beneficiary disappears before distribution.
Disappears.
A cold feeling crawled through me.
“Where is Emily?”
Nobody answered.
I called her phone.
Disconnected.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Then a police officer entered the room.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“We found an abandoned vehicle near the marina.”
“What vehicle?”
“An old black sedan.”
My stomach dropped.
“Emily's?”
He nodded.
“There was blood inside.”
Sabrina covered her mouth.
“What?”
The officer looked at me.
“We don't know if she's dead.”
I felt rage burn through me.
“Where?”
He gave me the location.
We drove there.
The vehicle sat near a deserted pier.
The driver's door was open.
Blood was smeared across the seat.
But there was no body.
I searched the ground.
Footprints led toward the water.
Then stopped.
Sabrina picked something up.
A bracelet.
She stared at it.
“It was Grandma's.”
I turned.
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
The bracelet had a small engraved charm.
My father's initials.
D.M.
My father had given that bracelet to someone.
I suddenly remembered the photograph from twenty-three years ago.
Victoria.
Raymond.
My father.
The mysterious woman.
Emily.
She had been there.
But why?
A voice came from behind us.
“Because she wasn't just your father's mistress.”
We turned.
Paul Grayson stood on the pier.
My old accountant.
He had a pistol.
Sabrina froze.
Paul looked at me.
“Your father loved Emily.”
I stared.
“But he chose you.”
“Why?”
“Because you were the legitimate son.”
He lowered the gun slightly.
“Your father believed you could keep the estate safe.”
“Then why did you help them?”
His face darkened.
“Because your father betrayed me.”
“How?”
“He promised me half.”
“Half of what?”
“The trust.”
I stared at him.
“So you spent twenty years trying to steal it?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I spent twenty years trying to get it back.”
He pointed the gun at Sabrina.
“She's the key.”
I moved in front of her.
Paul smiled.
“Exactly.”
Then another gunshot echoed across the marina.
Paul dropped.
I turned.
Victoria stood behind us.
May you like
Holding a gun.
And smiling.
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