Chapter 7 - Rebecca’s ChoiceFor one terrible second, I believed my sister had betrayed me again.
Rebecca’s hands trembled around the gun.
Jonathan smiled.
“You see, Emily? Everyone has a price.”
I looked at Rebecca.
“Apparently.”
Tears appeared in her eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
Jonathan extended his hand.
“The ledger.”
I slowly set the waterproof case on a table.
He opened it.
The original book lay inside.
He touched its cover almost affectionately.
Forty-one million dollars hidden offshore.
Men like Jonathan did not love people.
They loved possession.
Money.
Power.
Silence.
Christopher sat tied to the chair, watching everything.
His face was bruised.
One eye nearly swollen closed.
But he kept looking toward Rebecca.
Then I understood.
Her gun was aimed at me.
But her finger wasn't on the trigger.
It rested beside it.
Rebecca had never been comfortable around firearms.
When our father took us to a shooting range once as teenagers, she refused even to touch one.
Someone had taught her how to hold that weapon.
Perhaps federal agents.
Or Christopher.
Jonathan turned pages.
“You brought the real thing.”
“You threatened my son.”
“That usually clarifies priorities.”
“Michael had priorities too.”
Jonathan glanced up.
“He made unfortunate choices.”
“You murdered him.”
“No.”
Christopher laughed weakly.
Jonathan looked at him.
“What’s funny?”
“Sixteen years and you're still too cowardly to say it.”
Jonathan walked over and struck his son across the face.
I flinched.
Christopher spat blood.
“You paid Danner to cut the cable.”
Jonathan’s eyes sharpened.
“How do you know?”
“We found the footage,” I said.
For the first time, he looked genuinely shaken.
“You're lying.”
“Michael had cameras.”
“No.”
“My father preserved the recordings.”
Jonathan stared at me.
Then he smiled again.
“Digital evidence disappears.”
“Not after the FBI makes copies.”
Anger flashed across his face.
He reached toward his jacket.
Rebecca moved.
“Don't.”
Jonathan stopped.
He looked at her.
“You're pointing the gun at the wrong person.”
Rebecca shifted the barrel.
Now it was aimed at him.
“No,” she said. “I finally got it right.”
Jonathan laughed.
“You pathetic woman.”
Rebecca’s hand steadied.
“You spent three years making me believe I had no way out.”
I realized then that Christopher hadn't been Rebecca’s only manipulator.
Jonathan had been controlling both of them.
The red-coat conversation in our garage.
The promised payment.
The insurance scheme.
Christopher had participated, yes.
But much of it had been a desperate attempt to keep Jonathan believing he remained loyal.
A dangerous game that nearly got me killed.
Jonathan glanced toward two armed men standing by the rear door.
“Shoot her.”
Neither moved.
Then red laser sights appeared across their chests.
Federal tactical officers surrounded the windows.
Morales’s voice came through a loudspeaker.
“Federal agents! Weapons down!”
Jonathan’s face changed.
He grabbed Evelyn and pressed a pistol beneath her chin.
“No one comes inside!”
Christopher surged against his restraints.
“Dad!”
Jonathan fired into the ceiling.
“Stay back!”
Evelyn woke screaming.
I stepped forward.
“Take me.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Emily, no,” Christopher said.
Jonathan’s eyes narrowed.
“You want the person who owns Marston.”
“The ledger is enough.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“Without my authorization, several property trusts freeze. The federal government can seize Marston anyway, but you know there are things beneath that land we haven't found.”
I was lying.
Jonathan didn’t know that.
Greedy men often mistake uncertainty for hidden opportunity.
He hesitated.
“What things?”
I almost smiled.
There it was.
Greed.
The weakness that had survived every crime.
“My father built more than two vaults.”
Jonathan watched me.
Christopher understood immediately.
“Emily, shut up.”
I looked toward him.
Perfect.
His warning made the lie sound true.
Jonathan shoved Evelyn away.
“Bring her.”
One of his men grabbed me.
Rebecca raised her gun.
Another man knocked it away.
Agents shouted from outside.
Jonathan dragged me through a rear door toward the marina.
A speedboat waited.
Christopher broke one wrist free from the plastic restraint.
He launched himself at the guard beside him.
Everything happened at once.
Gunfire.
Glass shattered.
Rebecca pulled Evelyn to the floor.
I elbowed the man holding me.
Jonathan grabbed my hair.
“You stupid woman!”
I slammed my heel onto his foot.
He lost his grip.
Christopher tackled him.
Both men crashed against the dock railing.
Jonathan struck Christopher with the pistol.
Christopher fell.
Jonathan aimed at him.
I lunged.
The gun fired.
Christopher dropped.
“NO!”
I hit Jonathan from the side.
We fell onto the wet dock.
His pistol slid toward the edge.
Jonathan grabbed my throat.
“You should have died three years ago.”
I clawed at his hands.
His face twisted with rage.
Behind him, Christopher moved.
He wasn't dead.
The bullet had hit his shoulder.
He grabbed Jonathan’s ankle.
Jonathan lost balance.
I rolled away.
Federal agents swarmed the dock.
Jonathan reached for the pistol.
Morales shouted, “DON’T!”
He ignored her.
A shot rang out.
Jonathan collapsed.
Silence.
Morales approached carefully.
He was alive.
Shot through the upper arm.
Agents handcuffed him.
Christopher remained on the dock, blood spreading across his shirt.
I crawled toward him.
“Christopher.”
His eyes opened.
“You okay?”
I stared at him.
“You were shot and you're asking me?”
“Old habits.”
Paramedics arrived.
They cut open his shirt.
The wound was serious but survivable.
As they placed him on a stretcher, he caught my wrist.
“Emily.”
I looked at him.
“I’m sorry.”
There were fourteen years inside those two words.
Too much for one apology.
Too much for forgiveness.
I pulled my hand away.
“You need to live long enough to answer for everything.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
Then police took him away.
Jonathan survived surgery.
Evelyn was safe.
Rebecca surrendered and agreed to cooperate.
For the first time in sixteen years, Michael’s murder had an answer.
But my marriage didn't.
Three days later, Detective Morales came to my hotel.
“We completed the toxicology analysis on the syringe.”
I braced myself.
“Midazolam?”
“Yes.”
Christopher had told the truth.
“But there was something else.”
“What?”
“An antidote.”
I frowned.
“To what?”
Morales placed a report in front of me.
“A toxin we found in your nightly vitamin capsules.”
My throat tightened.
Someone had been slowly poisoning me for weeks.
And according to the lab report, the toxin would have become fatal within days.
Christopher hadn't entered my room to kill me.
He had entered carrying the medication that might have saved my life.
May you like
Which meant somebody else had placed the poison in my house.
Someone who still had not been arrested.
