Chapter 6 - The Brother Who Sold His Soul
"Julian?" The name ripped from my throat before my conscious mind could process it.
He looked identical to me, but harder. His face was crossed by a jagged silver scar running from his left temple down to his jawline—the souvenir of the car crash that had supposedly killed him five years ago.
"You always were the sentimental one, Ryan," Julian said, stepping over Agent Miller’s body and entering the small crawlspace. "Father’s trust fund doesn't just transfer to Uncle Vincent. Vincent died of a stroke last Tuesday. The entire sixty million dollars goes to the last surviving male of the Mercer bloodline."
"You faked your death," Caroline gasped, backing away into the bedroom. "You took the payoff from the syndicate five years ago! You gave them the coordinates to Sarah’s house!"
"Fifty million dollars buys a very comfortable life in Panama, Caroline," Julian chuckled, aiming the weapon directly at my forehead. "The only loose ends were Sarah, the brat, and my dear amnesiac brother. Imagine my surprise when I found out you had all three of them tucked away in this charming little fixer-upper."
Maya began to weep against my shoulder.
"Don't look at him, Maya," I whispered, keeping my body between Julian’s gun and my family. "Look at Lily."
"Give me the carving, Ryan," Julian said, extending an open hand. "Give me the encrypted drive with the offshore account keys, and maybe I'll let Caroline and the little girl live. Sarah is already dead of liver failure anyway—she won't survive the night."
"You're lying," I said, stalling for time, feeling the layout of the room in my mind.
I had spent eight months renovating this Victorian estate with my own hands. I knew every joist, every load-bearing stud, every electrical conduit, and every structural weakness in the timber.
Beneath the rug where Julian was standing was the old dumbwaiter shaft I had covered with three-quarter-inch subflooring, secured only with temporary finishing nails before laying the hardwood.
"I don't have the carving," I said, taking half a step backward toward the closet. "Caroline threw it down the laundry chute when she heard the glass break."
Julian’s eyes flickered with irritation. He took a heavy, aggressive step forward onto the center of the nursery floor.
"If you're lying to me, Ryan, I'll put a bullet through—"
May you like
I dropped to the floor, swept my leg out with all the force in my body, and slammed my heel directly into the exposed support lever of the old radiator valve beside the baseboard.
The high-pressure steam line, unvented and boiling at eighty pounds per square inch, ruptured with a deafening roar.
