Chapter 10 - The Unseen Shadow
Two months passed.
I sold the 72nd Street penthouse. I couldn't bear to live in a space where Julian had walked the halls, where he had watched me sleep, where every corner whispered memories of terror.
I purchased a charming, light-filled brownstone in the historic district of Brooklyn Heights, overlooking the quiet, tree-lined streets. I threw myself entirely into my art gallery in Chelsea, curating new exhibitions and using work as an anchor to keep my mind from sinking into the abyss of grief.
I changed all my phone numbers, hired an independent cybersecurity firm to scrub my digital footprint, and installed a state-of-the-art security system at my new home, complete with rolling encryption codes that changed every sixty seconds.
For the first time in months, I began to breathe again.
Then, on a stormy Tuesday in late January, the first anomaly appeared.
I was working late at the gallery, finalizing the catalog for an upcoming sculpture exhibition. My laptop was connected to the private gallery Wi-Fi.
Suddenly, the screen flickered. A notification popped up in the lower right corner:
Remote Access Granted: Terminal 04.
I frowned, clicking the notification to close it. But before my cursor could reach the icon, the mouse began moving on its own across the screen.
The cursor opened my web browser. It navigated directly to a secure cloud storage link.
A video file began playing.
My blood ran cold.
The video was a live stream from a camera positioned across the street from my new brownstone in Brooklyn. The timestamp in the corner was ticking in real time: JAN 28 — 8:14 PM.
I stared at the screen in pure terror. Someone was watching my house right this second.
Then, a text document opened on the screen. Words began typing themselves onto the blank white page with rapid, mechanical precision:
Did you really think Julian was acting alone, Natalie?
Julian was just the actor. I am the director.
Ethan didn't die because of a family feud. Ethan died because he found out what our company was doing with the offshore trust funds.
Check Ethan's private safe deposit box at Manhattan Trust. Key 882.
Run before they realize you know.
The connection abruptly severed. The laptop screen went black.
I sat in the empty gallery, the silence ringing in my ears like a siren.
Julian was locked in a maximum-security cell at Rikers Island awaiting trial. He had no computer access, no internet privileges, and his phone calls were strictly monitored.
Whoever had just hacked my computer was someone else entirely.
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Ethan’s death wasn't just the work of a jealous twin. It was part of a far larger, far more dangerous conspiracy that my husband had died trying to expose.
And now, the crosshairs were pointed directly at me.
