Chapter 89 - The Sister's Voice
The service corridor was a maze of vibrating pipes and exposed wiring, smelling of damp concrete and motor oil. I ran blindly through the dim orange glow of emergency bulkheads, my boots pounding against the slick concrete floor.
Behind me, the gunfire ceased abruptly. The unnatural silence that followed was far more terrifying than the shooting.
I reached the heavy fire door marked *Stationnement B-3*, hitting the panic bar with both hands. It burst open into the freezing, echoing cavern of the underground parking garage. Rows of dust-covered vehicles sat under buzzing sodium vapor lights.
Near pillar forty-two, a blue unmarked sedan sat idling, its exhaust puffing white into the frigid air.
I sprinted toward it, but before I could reach the door, a figure stepped out from behind a concrete pillar.
He didn't look like a hitman. He wore a tailored cashmere overcoat, a gray wool scarf, and silver-rimmed spectacles that sat neatly on a face that had aged with terrifying grace. He looked like an elder statesman, an uncle who poured cider at Thanksgiving and smiled politely at family recitals.
Julian Vance.
In his gloved right hand, he held a sleek, silenced automatic pistol, pointed casually at the center of my chest.
"Emma," he said, his voice as smooth and cultured as aged bourbon. "You always had your mother’s stubborn chin. And Claire’s unfortunate lack of discretion."
I stopped ten feet from him. My breath billowed in heavy white plumes between us.
"The police are already surrounding the block, Julian," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, though my heart was hammering against the envelopes beneath my coat.
He chuckled softly, a dry, dismissive sound. "The local police are currently dealing with a coordinated fire alarm at the consulate two blocks away. By the time they sort out the paperwork, you and I will have settled this quiet family dispute."
He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the bulge in my jacket. "Give me the box, Emma. You’ve had a dramatic week. The little scene at Christmas dinner, the theatrical run to the border... Eleanor was always terrible at dramatics. She panicked because she thought I would hurt the little girl."
"You would have," I said.
"Of course I would have," Julian replied without a shred of hesitation, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. "A child is a liability. An unformed mind that asks questions. But you... you are an adult. You understand contracts. You understand that the Vance name only exists because we pruned the dead branches before they rotted the trunk."
"Claire wasn't a dead branch," I said, reaching slowly into my coat.
His gun leveled directly at my forehead. "Hands where I can see them, my dear."
I didn't pull a weapon. I pulled out the small microcassette recorder, pressing the play button with my thumb.
Claire’s voice, recorded twenty-five years ago, crackled through the tiny, tinny speaker into the cold concrete garage:
*... Julian poisoned the water line at the foundry in 1978. He blamed the union, but the insurance payout cleared through Zurich account nine-nine-four. If Eleanor doesn't stop him, he will do to Emma what he did to me...*
Julian’s cultured smile froze. The gray eyes behind the spectacles hardened into flint.
"Where did you get that tape?" he whispered.
May you like
"It wasn't in the vault, Julian," I lied, stepping back toward the shadow of pillar forty-one. "It was uploaded to the RCMP server the second I crossed the border at midnight."
***
