Chapter 5 - Blood on the Ledger
Rebecca bolted down the corridor, the federal agents shouting behind her as they gave chase.
The east wing was lined with priceless impressionist art—monuments to Graham’s greed, purchased with the maritime trust that belonged to her daughters. The hallway smelled of cedar, polished brass, and the sterile coldness of Graham’s private domain.
At the end of the hall, the heavy steel door of Graham’s private study was already swinging shut.
Rebecca threw her entire weight against the door just as the magnetic lock engaged. The heavy mahogany-paneled steel slammed against her shoulder with bone-jarring force, knocking the breath from her lungs. She screamed in pain—her reconstructed clavicle throbbing with blinding white fire—but she shoved her foot into the jamb.
“You bitch!” Graham snarled from inside the room. He threw his weight against the door from the other side, trying to crush her foot, trying to sever the limb if necessary. “You should have stayed dead! You were nothing before me! A spoiled heiress with a dying father!”
Rebecca gritted her teeth, tears of sheer agony springing to her eyes, but she did not pull her foot back. Through the three-inch gap, she saw Graham’s face—twisted, purple with exertion, the mask of the billionaire completely stripped away to reveal the feral, terrified monster beneath.
“I was the woman who trusted you!” Rebecca screamed through the crack, her blood smearing against the white trim of the door. “I was the mother of your children! And you threw me into the sea for a balance sheet!”
From behind her, Agent Miller arrived, slamming his shoulder into the door alongside her. With the combined leverage of the federal agent and Rebecca’s desperate fury, the door burst open, sending Graham stumbling backward into his massive oak desk.
Papers scattered into the air. A crystal tumbler of scotch shattered against the baseboards.
Graham scrambled frantically for the lower right drawer of his desk. His fingers found the cold steel of a customized SIG Sauer P226.
“Federal agent, drop the weapon!” Miller roared, his gun leveled directly at Graham’s forehead.
Graham cocked the hammer, his hand shaking so violently the barrel wobbled in the air. His eyes were wide, glassy, completely detached from reality. He didn't point the gun at Miller.
He pointed it directly at Rebecca.
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“It was supposed to be clean,” Graham whispered, his voice cracking like dry timber. “The brakes fail. The car goes over. The ocean takes you. I was supposed to be the tragic hero. I was supposed to have the empire, the girls, the respect of the world. Why couldn't you just die, Rebecca? Why did you have to ruin my life?”
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