Chapter 9: The Broken Alibi
Marcus Vance looked older in the harsh light of the side alcove than he did in his boardroom portraits. His graying hair was slicked back, but dark circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes as he scrolled furiously through his smartphone. When Julian stepped into his field of vision, Marcus nearly dropped his glass of bourbon onto the marble floor.
"Julian?" Marcus muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he glanced nervously toward the main dais where Eleanor was still holding her audience. "What in God's name are you doing here? You know you're not permitted on foundation property after last year's dispute."
"The dispute was about your cooked balance sheets, Marcus, not my membership," Julian replied smoothly, stepping close enough to block Marcus's retreat toward the main hall.
I stepped out from behind Julian’s shoulder, letting my coat fall open just enough for the edge of the green jade pendant to catch the light. Marcus froze mid-sentence, his pupils dilating as he stared at my face. The resemblance to Margaret—the aunt he and Eleanor had systematically written out of the family history—hit him like a physical blow. He staggered back against the wood-paneled wall, his hand gripping the velvet drapery for balance.
"She's... she's dead," Marcus whispered, his voice cracking into a dry rasp. "We settled the estate twenty years ago. The court signed off on the abandonment papers."
"The courts signed off on documents your aunt signed under duress while heavily medicated in a private clinic," I said, my voice surprising me with its steady, cold clarity. "Arthur kept the real records, Marcus. And we have the audit trails showing every penny you redirected from Margaret's trust into your personal construction firm."
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Sweat beaded instantly along Marcus's hairline, soaking into his collar. He looked frantically toward the ballroom, but the wall of guests had grown too thick, insulating our corner in a pocket of absolute privacy. "Eleanor will destroy you," he hissed, the corporate veneer cracking entirely. "She owns the judges, the police commissioner, half the city council. You walk out there with those papers, and she'll have you arrested for extortion before midnight."
"Let her try," Julian said, pulling a thick manila envelope from his breast pocket and tapping it against Marcus's chest. "The press vans are parked right outside the service entrance. Do you want to explain your signature to the reporters, Marcus, or shall we let Eleanor take the fall alone?"
