Chapter 3
Detective Vance’s gloved hand reached into the dark recess of the pantry shelf and retrieved the thick manila envelope.
The silence in the kitchen grew so dense that the hum of the refrigerator sounded like a low-flying helicopter.
Julian took half a step forward, his hand twitching toward his pocket before he caught himself and let his arm hang limp at his side.
“That’s private property, Detective,” Julian said, his voice losing its smooth veneer and taking on a sharp, metallic edge. “You have no search warrant for personal papers in my home.”
Vance didn't look up; he slid the flap open with his thumb and pulled out three folded sheets of heavy cream-colored paper.
His eyes scanned the top page, moving quickly across lines of legal jargon, bank routing numbers, and a medical letterhead.
“Private property usually doesn't include offshore wire transfers to a maternity clinic in Geneva, Mr. Sterling,” Vance said softly.
Clara buried her face in Lily’s hair, her shoulders shaking not from fear of Eleanor anymore, but from a terror much older and much deeper.
Lily whimpered, her small hands clutching the fabric of Clara’s uniform as she whispered, “Is the loud lady coming back?”
“No, sweetheart,” Clara whispered back, her voice cracking as she glared at the back of Julian’s expensive suit. “The lady isn't coming back anytime soon.”
Vance turned the pages over, the heavy paper rustling in the quiet kitchen like dry leaves in an autumn wind.
“It says here that five years ago, a child was born to a woman named Sarah Jenkins—a woman who tragically died of a sudden brain aneurysm two weeks after delivery,” Vance read aloud, his eyes fixed on Julian’s rigid spine.
Julian didn't turn around; he stood frozen, staring out the window at the empty driveway where the police cruiser had just departed with Eleanor.
“Sarah Jenkins was my college research assistant,” Julian said through clenched teeth, his voice dangerously low. “She died. It was a tragedy.”
“According to this adoption decree signed by a judge in a jurisdiction three states away, you weren't just her employer, Mr. Sterling,” Vance countered, stepping closer. “You were her landlord, her debtor, and the sole executor of her estate.”
Vance lifted the final piece of paper, a crisp color photograph that had been paperclipped to the back of the medical report.
It was a picture of a young woman with wide blue eyes and a spray of freckles across her nose, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
The baby was wearing a miniature version of the exact dress Lily had on right now.
May you like
Vance looked from the photograph to the little girl on the floor, his professional mask slipping to reveal a profound, simmering disgust.
“She isn't your adopted daughter from an agency, is she, Julian?” Vance said, dropping the formal title entirely. “She’s Sarah Jenkins’ child. And Eleanor found out you murdered her mother.”
