Chapter 8 - THE POCKET WATCH
The flashing lights of five Newport Beach police cruisers bathed Pier 47 in a chaotic, strobing neon glow. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, but the tension in the air was electric.
Paramedics swarmed the deck of the cabin cruiser. They loaded Brandon onto a backboard, his face deathly pale, his breath rattling in his chest as they applied heavy pressure to the gunshot wound.
Rosalind stood a few feet away, her hands covered in blood, trembling uncontrollably. A female officer was forcefully applying handcuffs to her wrists, reading her Miranda rights over the din of the sirens. For the first time in her life, Rosalind looked small. The arrogant, untouchable matriarch had crumbled into a pathetic, shivering shell.
Gwen stood on the dock, a foil emergency blanket draped over her shoulders. She watched the scene with a strange, profound sense of detachment. The war was over. She had survived.
From the end of the pier, Mr. Dupont walked slowly toward Gwen, accompanied by a grim-faced detective.
Dupont wasn't wearing his usual country club attire. He looked grave, holding a small plastic evidence bag in his gloved hand.
“Mrs. Hale,” Dupont said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He looked past her to where Rosalind was being shoved into the back of a squad car. “Heather called me right after she called the police. She told me everything about the ledger.”
Gwen nodded, pulling the heavy Leather Ledger from her tote bag. She handed it to the detective.
“It’s all in there, Mr. Dupont,” Gwen said, her voice hoarse. “Ten years of wire transfers. She used her position on your charity board to funnel three million dollars into offshore accounts. She was going to kill me, her grandson, and his mother to collect the insurance money to replace it before your audit.”
Dupont closed his eyes, a look of profound disgust washing over his face.
“She didn't just steal money, Gwen,” Dupont said quietly. He held up the clear plastic evidence bag.
Inside the bag was a heavy, antique silver pocket watch, engraved with the Dupont family crest.
“My grandfather’s watch,” Dupont explained, his voice thick with emotion. “It was stolen from our home during a dinner party five years ago. I fired my entire household staff over it. Ruined innocent people’s careers because I thought they were thieves.”
He looked at Rosalind’s squad car, pure contempt radiating from him.
“The police just recovered it from the pawn shop receipt they found in her purse,” Dupont said. “She didn't pawn it for money. She pawned it because she hated that I had something older and more prestigious than she did. She was a hollow, jealous woman playing dress-up in our world.”
The absolute destruction of Rosalind’s image was complete. She wasn't just a murderer; in the eyes of the society she worshipped, she was a petty, common thief. That would hurt her more than the prison sentence.
The paramedics wheeled Brandon past them on a stretcher.
Gwen stepped forward. The paramedics paused for a brief second.
Brandon forced his eyes open. He looked at Gwen. He was breathing through an oxygen mask, his life hanging by a thread. He didn't look for his mother. He looked for his wife.
He slowly raised his bloodstained hand, reaching for Gwen.
Gwen didn't take his hand. She just looked at him, feeling a deep, profound pity, but no love. Not anymore.
Brandon swallowed hard, a tear slipping down his pale cheek. With a shaking hand, he reached into the waterproof pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a folded, notarized document, stained with a drop of his own blood, and weakly pushed it toward her.
Gwen took the paper.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon choked out behind the plastic mask. “I... I stopped the transfer. I couldn't do it to you.”
The paramedics pushed forward, loading him into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut, and it sped away into the night, sirens blaring.
Gwen unfolded the paper under the glow of a streetlight.
It was a quitclaim deed.
Brandon hadn't lost her childhood home to the bank. When he went to sign the final papers to leverage the house against his fake debts, his conscience—or his cowardice—had finally stopped him. He had legally transferred the title entirely into Gwen’s name. The house was safe. It was hers, free and clear.
“Gwen!”
A voice called out from the parking lot.
Sarah was running toward her, holding a massive umbrella. Little Leo was walking beside her, wrapped in a police jacket, looking tired but unharmed.
Sarah threw her arms around Gwen, hugging her fiercely. “Thank God you’re okay,” Sarah cried, pulling back. “The police told me what happened. Brandon... is he...”
“He’s alive,” Gwen said softly, looking at Leo. She knelt down to the boy’s eye level. She offered him a warm, reassuring smile. “You were very brave tonight, Leo.”
Leo looked at her with his big blue eyes. “Are you my daddy’s boss?”
Gwen laughed, a genuine, relieved sound that felt foreign in her chest. “No, sweetie. I’m just a friend. A very good friend.”
May you like
She stood up and looked at Sarah. Two women who had been used, lied to, and nearly killed by the same family. But instead of tearing each other apart, they had saved each other.
“Come on,” Gwen said, throwing her arm around Sarah’s shoulder, guiding her and Leo toward her car. “Let’s go home.”
