Chapter 114 - The Anatomy of a Phantom
I stopped six paces behind him. I didn't lower the gun.
"Turn around," I ordered.
He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging the cold glass in front of him, and turned.
It was Mark. The straight bridge of his nose, broken once during his collegiate rowing days. The faint crescent scar just beneath his left eye from a stray fish hook when we took our first cabin trip to Maine. The amber flecks in his dark hazel irises that used to catch the morning sun through our kitchen blinds.
He was older. The skin around his eyes was drawn tight, etched with lines of exhaustion and vigilance that hadn't been there when he kissed me on the forehead that rainy morning and told me he would pick up Maya from preschool after his client meeting.
"Claire," he murmured, taking a half-step forward.
"Don't move," I snarled, raising the pistol with both hands, the front sight post settling squarely between his eyes. "You take one more step and I swear to God I will drop you on this floor."
He stopped, raising his empty hands slowly, the ceramic mug resting on the console beside him. There was no mockery in his expression, only a profound, devastating sadness that made my stomach heave with nausea.
"I know," he said softly. "You have every right to shoot me. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn't have let you finish speaking."
"You let me bury you," I rasped, tears finally burning the corners of my eyes, blurring his silhouette against the dark fjord water. "I sat on the floor of our nursery for two months with Maya’s favorite stuffed rabbit, drinking until I couldn't feel my hands, wondering why God took my babies and left me behind. I listened to my mother tell me I had to get over it because Evelyn was planning her wedding. I listened to my father tell me I was bringing down the family reputation with my depression!"
My voice cracked, shattering into a jagged sob that I instantly forced back down. "I sold our home. I liquidated my soul. I tracked down the Vanguard hitmen who cut the brake lines, and every single one of them said the order was paid in full from an offshore account tied to the Vance family trust."
"It was," Mark said, without blinking.
The world stopped spinning. The hum of the facility, the distant sirens, the rhythmic slap of the tide below—everything vanished, leaving only those two words hanging in the frost between us.
May you like
"What did you say?" I whispered.
"I wired the funds, Claire," Mark said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of shame or remorse. "I hired the crew that cut the lines on the Volvo. I timed the intercept. I picked the ravine."
