Chapter 2 - THE BLUE FOLDER

The Newport marina was deserted, lashed by a sudden, violent afternoon downpour. The sky was the color of bruised iron, the rain slicking the wooden docks and obscuring the sprawling luxury yachts moored along the slips.

Gwen stepped out of her car, the cold wind whipping her wet hair across her face. She didn’t bother with an umbrella. She clutched her heavy tote bag tightly against her side, her boots thudding against the wet planks of Pier 47.

At the very end of the dock, swaying violently in the choppy water, was a sleek, fifty-foot cabin cruiser. It belonged to the Duponts, but Brandon had always kept the keys to maintain it.

Gwen walked steadily toward it.

Through the pouring rain, she saw Brandon standing on the aft deck. He was soaked to the bone, pacing nervously. Behind him, huddled in the covered entryway of the cabin, was Sarah. She was clutching Leo tightly to her chest, both of them shivering and terrified.

“Gwen!” Brandon shouted over the roar of the wind, stepping forward to the edge of the boat. He looked completely unhinged. “Do you have it? Do you have the ledger and the bonds?”

Gwen stopped ten feet away on the dock. She didn’t shout. She just stared at him, letting the rain wash over her.

“Let them off the boat, Brandon,” Gwen demanded, her voice cutting through the storm with startling clarity.

“I can’t!” Brandon yelled, running a frantic hand through his wet hair. “If I don’t give my mother the ledger, she’s going to ruin me! She said the cartel will kill us all!”

“There is no cartel, Brandon!” Gwen yelled back, finally losing her patience. “I saw the insurance policies! I saw the forged medical records! You and your mother made it all up to stage our deaths for the payout!”

Brandon froze. His mouth opened, but the rain silenced his reply. He looked genuinely confused.

“What policies?” Brandon asked, his voice dropping. “My mother said we were just going to take the bonds and run to Mexico to escape the debt!”

Gwen’s breath hitched.

The ultimate reversal hit her like a freight train. Brandon hadn’t orchestrated a murder plot. He was too cowardly for that. Rosalind had manipulated him into kidnapping Sarah and Leo, convincing him it was about a cartel debt. Rosalind had set up the insurance policies entirely on her own, planning to kill Gwen, Sarah, Leo, and pin it all on Brandon.

Before Gwen could explain, the heavy glass door of the boat’s cabin slid open.

Rosalind stepped out into the rain.

She was wearing a pristine, beige designer trench coat, completely out of place in the violent storm. She didn’t look panicked. She looked utterly, terrifyingly calm.

And in her right hand, she was holding a sleek, black 9mm handgun.

“He always was a bit slow, Gwen,” Rosalind said, her voice easily carrying over the wind. She aimed the gun directly at Sarah and Leo. “He actually believed the ridiculous story about loan sharks. He’s a wonderful son, but a terrible criminal.”

“Mom, what are you doing?!” Brandon screamed, his eyes locking onto the gun. He took a step toward her. “Put that down! You said we were just going to scare them to keep them quiet!”

“Shut up, Brandon,” Rosalind snapped, never taking her eyes off Gwen. “You’re bankrupt. You’re useless. You couldn’t even keep your wife from snooping. Throw the bag on the boat, Gwen. Now.”

Gwen’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was crystal clear. She opened her tote bag. She didn’t pull out the bonds.

She pulled out the thick, Leather Ledger.

“Is this what you want, Rosalind?” Gwen shouted, holding the book up in the rain. “The record of every single dime you embezzled from the Duponts’ charity foundation for the last ten years? I read it. You didn’t need the insurance money to pay off a debt. You needed it to replace the three million dollars you stole before Mr. Dupont’s audit next week!”

Rosalind’s composed mask finally cracked. Her jaw tightened, and pure, venomous hatred flashed in her eyes.

“Throw it on the deck, Gwen, or the bastard child dies right now,” Rosalind hissed, stepping closer to Sarah, pressing the barrel of the gun toward Leo’s small head.

Sarah screamed, burying Leo’s face in her shoulder.

“No!” Brandon roared. The sight of a gun pointed at his son finally shattered the lifelong spell his mother held over him.

Brandon lunged at Rosalind.

He didn’t know how to fight. He was a golfer, a salesman. But he was desperate. He crashed into his mother, grabbing her wrist and twisting the gun away from his secret family.

“Sarah, run!” Brandon screamed, wrestling his mother against the polished fiberglass railing of the boat.

Gwen didn’t hesitate. She dropped the ledger on the dock, pulled the heavy chef’s knife from her bag, and leaped across the gap onto the deck of the boat.

She grabbed Sarah’s arm, hauling the terrified woman and child off the swaying vessel and onto the solid wood of the pier. “Go! Go to my car!” Gwen yelled, shoving the keys into Sarah’s hand.

On the boat, the struggle turned deadly. Rosalind, fueled by sheer, narcissistic rage, fought with terrifying strength. She drove her knee into Brandon’s stomach. As he doubled over, she wrenched her arm free.

She aimed the gun wildly, trying to track Sarah and Leo as they ran down the dock.

“No!” Gwen screamed.

Gwen lunged, tackling Rosalind around the waist.

A gunshot rang out. The deafening crack echoed across the water, louder than the thunder.

Time seemed to stop.

Gwen hit the wet deck hard, her shoulder screaming in pain. She looked up frantically.

Sarah and Leo were safe, running toward the parking lot.

Gwen turned back to the boat.

Rosalind was standing against the railing, the gun still in her hand, smoke rising from the barrel.

And Brandon was lying on the deck, clutching his chest, a dark red stain spreading rapidly across his white soaked shirt. He had stepped directly in front of the bullet meant for his son.

“Brandon!” Rosalind screamed, her voice cracking, dropping the gun as she fell to her knees beside her bleeding son. For a fraction of a second, the monster vanished, replaced by a horrified mother.

In the distance, the wail of police sirens pierced the storm. Heather had made the call.

Gwen slowly sat up on the wet deck. She looked at Rosalind, whose pristine beige coat was now soaked in her son’s blood.

The image of the perfect family was finally, completely dead.