Chapter 8 - THE FLIGHT TICKET
The heavy bronze fire poker in Ethan’s hand trembled slightly as his eyes locked onto the boarding pass.
The name Richard Mercer printed on the ticket seemed to scream in the quiet, shattered library. Ethan’s desperate, manic smile slowly dissolved, replaced by a cold, hollow realization that his perfectly constructed illusion had completely collapsed.
The first question was answered: Ethan wasn't just a greedy husband. He had entirely consumed his dead father’s identity, adopting his father’s debts, his father’s grudges, and even his father’s name on legal documents to execute this massive fraud.
But two new questions hung heavy in the suffocating air. If Ethan was willing to commit identity fraud and grand larceny to steal the Whitmore archive, how far was he willing to go to silence the people standing in his way? And what exactly was Arthur Bellamy’s role in my grandmother’s hidden life?
“Give me the ticket, Claire,” Ethan commanded, his voice dropping the frantic edge and settling into a terrifying, lethal calm. He took a slow step toward me, his grip tightening on the heavy iron rod.
I held my ground, adjusting Toby’s weight against my hip. My seven-year-old nephew stirred, blinking sleepily at the bright lights of the library. When Toby saw Ethan holding the weapon, he let out a small, terrified whimper and buried his face into my neck.
“You aren't going to Geneva, Ethan,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. I held the boarding pass up between two fingers. “You aren't taking the offshore accounts. You aren't taking my inheritance. And you are never, ever coming near my nephew again.”
Ethan let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You think you hold the cards because you found a piece of paper? You’re a document restorer, Claire. You fix old, dead things in a basement. You don't know how the real world works. Margaret has already agreed to back my conservatorship claim. By morning, you’ll be in a psychiatric hold, and I’ll be the sole guardian of the estate.”
“Margaret isn't backing anyone,” Arthur Bellamy’s voice rang out from the leather chair.
Ethan snapped his head toward the elderly jeweler.
Arthur didn't look afraid. He looked at Ethan with the profound, quiet disgust of a man observing a cockroach. Arthur reached into his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a small, sleek black cell phone.
“Margaret Holloway is currently sitting in a police cruiser at the bottom of the driveway,” Arthur stated calmly. “I called the authorities twenty minutes ago, while you were busy tearing up the foyer looking for your wife. I informed them of Margaret’s attempt to extort the Whitmore heir. She is currently negotiating her own plea deal, and I assure you, Mr. Mercer, she is throwing you to the wolves.”
Ethan’s face went completely pale. The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking like a ghost.
“You’re lying,” Ethan hissed, gripping the fire poker tighter.
“Look out the window,” Arthur suggested mildly.
Ethan slowly turned his head toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the front lawn. Through the glass, the unmistakable flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers painted the manicured hedges in chaotic, strobe-like bursts.
Panic, raw and unfiltered, finally broke through Ethan’s arrogant facade.
He looked at the police lights, then at Arthur, and finally, his wild eyes locked onto me. He realized the walls were closing in. He had no allies. Vanessa had abandoned him, Margaret had been arrested, and his escape ticket was in my hand.
“The key,” Ethan snarled, his desperation mutating into violence. He lunged toward me, raising the heavy bronze poker. “Give me the key, Claire! Now!”
“No!” Toby screamed, suddenly pushing away from my chest.
Before I could react, my brave, terrified seven-year-old nephew reached into his own small pocket. He didn't pull out another drawing. He pulled out the heavy, intricately carved silver pocket watch I had slipped into my coat pocket earlier, which Toby had found while burrowed inside it.
With all the strength his small arm could muster, Toby threw the heavy silver watch directly at Ethan’s face.
The heavy metal struck Ethan squarely in the cheekbone with a sickening crack.
Ethan cried out in pain, stumbling backward, dropping the fire poker to clutch his face. Blood instantly swelled beneath his eye.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped the boarding pass, lunged forward, and kicked the heavy bronze poker across the polished hardwood floor, sending it skittering out of Ethan’s reach.
I grabbed Toby, pulling him safely behind me, and backed toward the doorway.
Ethan fell to his knees, gasping, holding his bleeding face. He looked up at me, the final remnants of the man I had loved completely destroyed. He looked pathetic. Small.
“You ruined everything,” Ethan sobbed, a pathetic, entitled whine escaping his throat. “I spent eleven years pretending to care about your boring, pathetic life! I earned that money! It was owed to my father!”
“Your father was a con artist who tried to steal from a woman infinitely smarter than him,” I said coldly, looking down at my husband for the last time. “And you are exactly like him. A cheap imitation of a man.”
Heavy footsteps echoed in the grand foyer behind me.
“Police! Drop your weapons and put your hands where we can see them!”
Two Newport police officers burst into the library, their service weapons drawn and trained directly on Ethan.
Ethan froze, his hands still covered in his own blood. He slowly raised them in the air, his eyes wide with defeat. The officers moved in swiftly, grabbing his arms and forcing him face-first against the mahogany desk, snapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
“Claire,” Ethan pleaded, his voice cracking as they dragged him toward the door. “Claire, please! Tell them it’s a misunderstanding! I’m your husband!”
I didn't even blink.
“I don't know this man,” I said to the officers.
As they dragged a sobbing, humiliated Ethan Mercer out of the library, the suffocating weight that had pressed down on my chest for a decade finally lifted. I took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting sweeter than it ever had.
I turned around.
Arthur Bellamy was standing up, leaning heavily on his cane. He walked slowly over to where the silver pocket watch had landed on the floor. He picked it up, wiping a smudge of blood off the crystal face with his thumb.
Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet box.
He walked over to me and held it out.
May you like
“Mrs. Mercer—or rather, Miss Ashford,” Arthur said, his eyes crinkling with a warm, grandfatherly smile. “Your grandmother instructed me to give this to you the moment you finally proved you no longer needed protecting.”
I looked at the velvet box. My hands trembled as I reached out and took it.
