Chapter 6 - The Wedding Day
Saturday dawned crisp and clear, the kind of perfect New England autumn day that money could usually buy.
Evelyn sat in the driver’s seat of her rusted sedan, parked half a mile down the winding coastal road from the Mercer estate. Through the binoculars resting against the steering wheel, she watched the massive iron gates. Security was tighter than a presidential visit. Black-suited men with earpieces checked the undercarriage of every florist van and catering truck that arrived.
Sterling hadn’t been bluffing. If she walked up to those gates, she would be arrested—or worse—before she got within fifty feet of the mansion.
But Sterling and Sloane had made one critical mistake. They treated the estate like a fortress they had just conquered. Evelyn had treated it like a home she cleaned every day for two years.
She knew the secrets the billionaires didn’t.
At 3:00 PM, an hour before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, Evelyn left her car hidden in the trees and began the grueling hike through the dense, thorny woods bordering the estate’s eastern cliff face. Her legs burned, her jeans snagging on briars, but she pushed through the pain.
She reached the edge of the property line, a sheer rock wall dropping down to the crashing waves of Massachusetts Bay. Hidden behind a thick overgrowth of ivy was an old, rusted iron door.
It was a prohibition-era bootlegger’s tunnel that Arthur Mercer had proudly showed off to a historian once, years ago. Evelyn remembered the story because she had been the one tasked with polishing the brass lanterns inside it. The family hadn’t used it in decades.
Evelyn grabbed a heavy rock and smashed it against the rusted padlock. It took five agonizing, echoing strikes before the brittle metal snapped.
She pulled the heavy door open and slipped into the damp darkness.
The tunnel smelled of salt and old earth. Evelyn used her phone’s flashlight to navigate the uneven stone floor, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had no plan beyond getting inside. She knew the cake cutting was scheduled for 7:00 PM, immediately after the dinner service. She had to get into the ballroom before Sloane or Sterling spiked the frosting.
Ten minutes later, Evelyn reached the end of the tunnel. She pressed her ear against the wooden panel that concealed the exit. She could hear the faint, muffled sounds of string instruments. The ceremony was starting on the lawn.
Evelyn pushed the panel. It swung open, depositing her behind a heavy tapestry in the estate’s wine cellar.
She crept up the cellar stairs and peered through the small window in the door leading to the main hallway. The house was mostly empty; the staff and security were all outside managing the three hundred guests on the lawn.
Evelyn slipped out of the cellar and sprinted toward the staff changing rooms. She needed a disguise. Her jeans and muddy boots would instantly give her away.
She found the head housekeeper’s locker, picked the cheap combination lock, and pulled out a spare catering uniform—black slacks, a crisp white button-down, and a black vest. She tied her dark hair back into her signature tight bun, washed the dirt from her face in the sink, and pinned a generic nametag to her lapel.
She looked exactly like one of the fifty temporary catering staff hired for the evening. Invisible again.
Evelyn stepped out of the locker room and blended directly into the frantic stream of waiters carrying trays of champagne flutes toward the grand ballroom.
The ballroom was breathtaking. Thousands of white roses cascaded from the crystal chandeliers. In the center of the room, positioned perfectly under a spotlight, was the wedding cake. It was a towering six-tier masterpiece. The bottom five tiers were pristine white. The top tier—Grant’s tier—was a rich, dark chocolate color, already set in place.
Evelyn scanned the room. Henri, the stressed catering manager, was barking orders at the waitstaff.
“No one touches the top tier!” Henri shouted. “The bride’s chef will apply the custom glaze right before they cut it. Keep the guests away from the table!”
Evelyn’s eyes darted around the room. Where was the chef? Where was Sterling?
Suddenly, a massive cheer erupted from outside. The string quartet transitioned into a triumphant march.
The doors to the ballroom flew open.
Grant and Sloane Mercer walked in, officially husband and wife.
The guests flooded in behind them, clapping and raising their glasses. Sloane looked radiant, her smile blinding for the cameras. But Evelyn only had eyes for Grant.
He looked worse than yesterday. His skin was gray, his movements sluggish. He leaned heavily on Sloane, though he forced a smile for the crowd. The beta-blockers Sterling had been feeding him were already failing his heart. He wouldn’t survive the lethal dose in the cake.
Evelyn edged her way around the perimeter of the room, keeping her face turned toward the wall as she navigated the crowded tables. She needed to get to that cake. She needed to grab the top tier and throw it onto the floor before Sloane could glaze it.
She made it to the edge of the dance floor. The cake table was only twenty feet away.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the DJ announced, his voice booming over the speakers. “Before we serve dinner, the bride and groom will cut the cake!”
Evelyn panicked. They were moving the schedule up. Grant looked too weak to last through a multi-course dinner. Sloane was accelerating the murder.
Evelyn watched as Sloane motioned to Dr. Sterling, who was standing near the edge of the stage. Sterling reached into his tuxedo pocket and smoothly handed Sloane the small, dark glass bottle of “vanilla extract.”
Sloane stepped up to the cake table, her back partially to the crowd. With practiced, elegant movements, she uncapped the bottle and poured the clear liquid directly over the chocolate frosting of the top tier. She used a silver spatula to smooth it in, making it look like a final, decorative touch.
It was done. The poison was in the cake.
Sloane turned back to Grant, her smile radiant and lethal. She handed him the silver cake knife.
Evelyn didn’t think. She didn’t calculate the risk. She dropped her tray of champagne glasses. The crystal shattered loudly against the marble floor, but the sound was drowned out by the music and the cheering crowd.
She sprinted across the dance floor.
“Grant, no!” Evelyn screamed, her voice tearing through her throat.
She didn’t make it five feet.
A heavy, bruising hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around violently.
Evelyn gasped as she slammed hard into a chest covered in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.
Dr. Vance Sterling stared down at her, his eyes dead and cold.
May you like
Before Evelyn could scream again, she felt the hard, unmistakable steel barrel of a suppressed handgun press sharply against her ribs, hidden beneath the drape of Sterling’s jacket.
“Make a scene,” Sterling whispered directly into her ear, his voice a silken threat, “and I will shoot you through the spine right now. Then I will go to the hospital and finish your mother.”
