Chapter 2 - THE SILVER LOCKET
Julian shoved the grease canister deep into the pocket of his silk robe, his eyes darting frantically around the foyer before they finally snapped up to meet mine.
We stared at each other across the expanse of the grand staircase.
He didn’t know I had heard Eleanor. He didn’t know I had seen the latex gloves. For a fraction of a second, I watched him construct the lie behind his dark, calculating eyes. His face melted into a mask of pure, panicked devastation.
"Victoria!" Julian yelled, his voice echoing off the marble walls as he dropped to his knees beside his bleeding sister. "Call 911! Chloe fell!"
I didn’t move to grab my phone. I simply placed my hand on the smooth mahogany banister and began to descend, avoiding the right side of the steps where Eleanor’s deadly trap still glistened under the chandelier light.
"I already called them," I lied, my voice eerily calm. "They are two minutes away."
Eleanor was trembling. She had ripped the latex gloves off her hands, shoving them down the front of her nightgown. She looked at Julian, her eyes wide with a terrifying mixture of guilt and fury.
"She slipped," Eleanor stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the stairs. "She must have been running in her socks."
I reached the bottom step and looked down at my sister-in-law. Chloe’s head was resting at an unnatural angle against the marble tile. Her breathing was shallow, a thin trail of blood pooling beneath her blonde hair. But it wasn't the blood that made my stomach twist into a hard, cold knot.
It was what Chloe was clutching in her right hand.
Her fingers were clamped desperately around a heavy, antique silver locket.
It was my mother’s locket. The one I kept locked in a biometric safe inside my private study—the same study I had just tricked Chloe into entering.
"Why does she have my mother's necklace?" I asked, looking directly at Julian.
Julian’s eyes flicked to the silver chain spilling from Chloe’s fist. A flash of genuine surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by defensive anger. "Does it matter right now, Victoria? My sister is dying on your floor!"
"It matters," I said softly, stepping closer.
Sirens wailed in the distance, cutting through the heavy silence of the estate. Julian stood up, stepping between me and Chloe’s body, his chest heaving.
"Go back upstairs," Julian ordered. It wasn't a request. The charming, supportive husband I had loved for two years was completely gone. His voice was cold, sharp, and laced with a quiet menace. "The stress isn't good for the baby. Eleanor and I will handle the paramedics."
He was trying to isolate me. If I went back up those stairs, he would have time to wipe the grease away. He would erase the evidence of my attempted murder.
I looked at the heavy bulge in his robe pocket where the grease canister was hidden.
"No," I said, holding my ground. "I’m staying right here."
The heavy oak front doors burst open. Three paramedics rushed into the foyer, pushing past Julian to get to Chloe.
As they loaded her onto the stretcher, Chloe’s hand went limp. The silver locket slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the marble.
Julian immediately reached down to grab it, but I was faster. Despite being eight months pregnant, I dropped to one knee and snatched the cold metal from the floor.
"I'll hold onto this," I said, slipping it into the pocket of my cardigan.
Julian glared at me, a muscle feathering in his jaw. "We are following the ambulance to the hospital, Victoria. Get your coat."
"I’m not going," I replied, backing away toward the kitchen. "I’m exhausted. Let me know when she wakes up."
I didn't wait for his argument. I turned and walked away, locking the heavy mahogany doors of the kitchen behind me. I listened as the front doors closed and the ambulance peeled out of the driveway.
I was finally alone in the house.
I pulled the silver locket from my pocket. My mother had died of a sudden heart attack five years ago. I hadn't opened this locket since her funeral.
My thumb found the small latch. I pressed it.
The locket sprang open.
My mother’s picture was gone.
In its place was a tiny, tightly folded piece of laminated paper. I pried it out with my fingernail and unfolded it under the bright kitchen lights.
It was a printed receipt from a private aviation company.
Charter Flight: Chicago to Geneva, Switzerland.
Date of Departure: Tomorrow at 6:00 A.M.
Passengers: Julian Vance. Eleanor Vance.
There was no ticket for Chloe.
They weren't just planning to kill me for the insurance money. They were planning to flee the country tomorrow morning. And Julian was planning to leave his own sister behind to take the fall.
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But as I flipped the receipt over, I saw a handwritten note scrawled on the back in red ink.
The Cayman account is drained. He knows what you did to her father. Run.
