Chapter 4 - The Toxic Ledger
~1,100 words
My breath frosted against the cold glass of the cabin window.
The pharmacy keys.
I had spent two frantic days tearing my hospital locker apart, convinced I had carelessly misplaced them. My nursing supervisor had given me a severe written warning for losing restricted property.
Gregory had stolen them from my bag. He had stolen them and given them to his twenty-three-year-old mistress.
Why? What possible use could an accountant and a young girl have for override keys to a pediatric pharmacy?
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced my chest. I backed away from the window, keeping low behind the evergreen bushes, and practically ran back to my car.
I locked the doors, my hands shaking so violently I could barely put the key in the ignition.
I needed to know where Gregory got the cash to buy this house. I needed to know why they had my hospital keys.
I couldn't confront him tonight. If I tipped my hand now, he would destroy the evidence. I needed proof.
I drove straight to Gregory’s accounting firm in the city.
It was 12:30 PM. Gregory had a religious devotion to his 12:00 PM Thursday squash game at the athletic club down the street. I knew his office would be empty for at least another forty minutes.
I walked into the firm, waving politely to the receptionist who had known me for years.
“Hi, Brenda. Greg forgot his lunch on the counter this morning. I’m just going to drop it on his desk.”
“Go right ahead, Sarah,” Brenda smiled, not looking up from her computer.
I walked down the carpeted hallway and slipped into Gregory’s corner office, closing the heavy oak door behind me.
His office was immaculate. Everything had a designated place.
I went straight for his filing cabinet. Locked.
I checked under his keyboard, inside his pen cup, and finally felt beneath the center drawer of his mahogany desk. My fingers brushed a piece of tape holding a small brass key. Gregory was meticulous, but he was also predictable.
I unlocked the bottom drawer.
Inside were neat, color-coded folders. Tax returns. Corporate audits.
I dug past the mundane files until I reached a thick, unmarked black binder at the very back.
I pulled it out and laid it on his desk.
I opened it.
The first page was a life insurance policy.
It was my policy. The one we had taken out when Toby was born. It was supposed to be a standard half-million-dollar policy to cover the mortgage if anything happened to me.
But the document in front of me was a recent amendment, stamped and approved exactly one month ago.
Gregory had increased my life insurance coverage to three million dollars.
And he had changed the primary beneficiary.
It wasn't Gregory. It was a corporate entity called Sapphire Holdings LLC.
I flipped the page, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I found the incorporation documents for Sapphire Holdings LLC.
The managing director of the LLC was listed as Gregory Vance.
The secondary director was Chloe Sterling.
Chloe Sterling.
I recognized the last name immediately. Marcus Sterling was Gregory’s wealthiest client, a billionaire tech CEO whose accounts kept Gregory’s firm afloat. Chloe wasn't just a random girl. She was the spoiled daughter of a billionaire.
Gregory wasn't bankrolling Chloe. Chloe was bankrolling him.
The cash for the cabin in Pinehaven didn't come from Gregory’s savings. It came from Chloe’s trust fund. Gregory was using her money to buy a secret life, and he had promised her a massive return on investment.
Three million dollars, to be exact.
I flipped to the next section of the binder.
It was a spreadsheet titled "Transition Timeline."
My eyes scanned the meticulously typed rows, horror creeping up my spine like icy fingers.
August 12: Begin symptom introduction (fatigue, memory loss).
September 5: Escalate dosage. Secure pharmacy access.
October 20: Complete life insurance waiting period.
November 15: The incident.
He wasn't just planning to divorce me. He was planning to murder me.
And he was doing it slowly.
Begin symptom introduction.
For the last three months, I had been plagued by overwhelming exhaustion, dizzy spells, and uncharacteristic forgetfulness. I had blamed it on the grueling twelve-hour hospital shifts. My doctor had told me it was just stress and prescribed a daily multivitamin regimen.
Gregory had insisted on making my "health smoothies" every single morning, blending my vitamins into a thick green drink before I left for the hospital.
I felt a sudden, violent urge to vomit.
I closed the binder, my hands trembling uncontrollably.
As I reached to put the binder back into the drawer, my eyes caught a crumpled piece of paper shoved hastily into the corner of the drawer.
I pulled it out and smoothed it flat.
It was a drawing. Done in thick, messy crayons.
It was Toby’s drawing style.
I stared at the picture, the breath completely knocked out of my lungs.
Toby had drawn a picture of a house. Standing in front of the house were four stick figures.
Underneath the figures, Toby had written the names in his clumsy, kindergarten handwriting.
Daddy.
Chloe.
Toby.
The New Baby.
My five-year-old son knew Chloe was pregnant.
May you like
Gregory and Chloe were building a new family, and I was the three-million-dollar funding source they needed to exterminate before the baby arrived.
A heavy hand suddenly clamped down on my shoulder.
