Chapter 4 - The Ledger of Blood
Morgan sat at Evelyn Vance’s small kitchen table, sipping hot black tea that did little to stop the shivering in her bones. Evelyn’s bungalow was modest, filled with shelves of botanical books, dried herbs, and framed photographs of a smiling, dark-haired woman with bright hazel eyes. Claire.
Morgan looked at Claire’s photograph. The resemblance in demeanor was uncanny. Julian had a type: self-sufficient, responsible women with family land and forgiving natures.
“If we go to the police today with this jar,” Evelyn warned, tapping the glass containing the neutralized toxin, “his defense attorney will claim Julian bought cheap fashion jewelry online, completely unaware that it contained toxic industrial lead or tainted silver. He’ll walk. And once he knows the game is up, he’ll pack his bags and vanish before tomorrow morning.”
“Then what do we do?” Morgan asked, her voice steadying. The initial wave of paralyzing panic was receding, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. She had spent five years working eighteen-hour days, fixing Julian’s endless financial blunders, sacrificing her dignity, and draining her savings—all while he planned to murder her like cattle.
“We need the paper trail,” Evelyn said. “The life insurance policy. The deed transfer documents. And we need his confession or an unbroken chain of custody on the weapon.”
“I can get the papers,” Morgan said firmly.
At 1:00 PM, Morgan took a rideshare back to Oak Park. Julian had texted her an hour earlier saying he was meeting a "logistics partner" in River North until 5:00 PM. She had four hours.
She entered the apartment, locking the deadbolt behind her. The silence of the apartment felt heavy, sinister. Every piece of furniture, bought with her hard-earned salary, seemed mocking.
Morgan hurried into the spare bedroom Julian used as his home office. The room was always locked, but Morgan had an emergency key hidden on the molding above the frame. She slipped inside.
Julian’s desk was cluttered with half-filled coffee mugs, tech magazines, and notes. His desktop computer was asleep. Morgan sat down and powered on the monitor. Julian’s password had always been predictable: his mother’s maiden name followed by the year he graduated high school. It took her two attempts to log in.
Her hands moved over the keyboard with mechanical precision. She opened his hidden folders.
What she found made the bile rise in her throat.
There was a scanned document: a $1.5 million term life insurance policy with Northwestern Mutual, taken out under Morgan’s name four months ago. Her signature on the application was a masterpiece of forgery—so close to her real handwriting that it would have passed standard verification. The primary beneficiary: Julian Mercer (alias Julian Vance-Miller).
Next to it was a folder titled *Wisconsin Assets*. Inside were pre-filled Quitclaim Deeds for the Door County cottage, drafted to transfer full ownership to Julian in the event of Morgan’s death or incapacitation, accompanied by forged notary seals.
And then, she opened his encrypted email client.
There was a recent exchange from an anonymous ProtonMail address, dated just five days ago:
> **Sender:** *V-Logistics <[email protected]>*
> **To:** *Julian Mercer*
> **Subject:** *Custom Order Delivery - Final Batch*
>
> *The plating is stable for 72 hours in a dry environment. Once applied to the skin, body temperature will degrade the protective wax within ninety minutes. Ensure she wears it continuously for dinner. Do not touch the interior links with bare fingers. The notary paperwork is ready. We close on the Door County land the moment the death certificate is issued.*
Morgan felt the floor drop beneath her. Julian wasn't operating alone.
*“We close on the Door County land...”*
Who was "V"?
Suddenly, the front door of the apartment clicked open.
Morgan’s heart stopped. The heavy thud of men's boots echoed in the entryway, followed by the sound of keys being tossed onto the console table.
May you like
Julian was home three hours early.
***
