Chapter 10 – The Price on My Life
The federal prosecutor showed me the contract the next morning.
It did not say murder.
People like Margaret Blackwood did not write murder.
It said contingency resolution.
Payment upon transfer of custodial control.
Five million dollars.
A photograph of me was attached.
So was Emma’s birth certificate.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
“She put a price on my life.”
Special Agent Elena Torres nodded.
“We believe so.”
“And Adrian knew?”
“We’re still determining that.”
I looked through the interrogation-room glass.
Adrian sat alone.
His hands were cuffed to the table.
“Let me ask him.”
Torres hesitated.
“Please.”
Five minutes later, I sat across from my husband.
“You knew.”
He looked at the contract.
His face collapsed.
“No.”
“Don’t lie again.”
“I knew she wanted control.”
“Did you know she wanted me dead?”
“No.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
At least that answer was truthful.
He looked at me.
“I spent years asking you to trust me while giving you every reason not to.”
I said nothing.
“I hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“I controlled you.”
“Yes.”
“I isolated you.”
“Yes.”
“I became my mother.”
“Yes.”
His eyes filled.
“I’m sorry.”
I felt nothing.
And that surprised me.
Once, those words would have broken me.
Now they were simply words.
“An apology doesn’t erase what you did.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t make you a good man because you finally helped after everything collapsed.”
“I know.”
“You’re still going to prison.”
“I know.”
I stood.
Adrian looked at me.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“My mother will come for you herself now.”
“Let her.”
“Don’t underestimate her.”
I turned.
“I spent six years underestimating myself.”
That afternoon, Margaret called.
This time, I answered without fear.
“You destroyed everything.”
Her voice sounded different.
No servants.
No ballroom.
No audience.
Just rage.
“No, Margaret.”
“You did.”
“You ungrateful little bitch.”
I smiled.
There she was.
The real Margaret.
“You married into my family with nothing.”
“I had a company worth more than yours.”
“Your father built that.”
“And your husband built yours.”
Silence.
I had found the wound.
Margaret had inherited Blackwood Holdings after her husband died.
She had spent thirty years pretending she created it.
“You think you won?”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound so pleased?”
“Because you sound scared.”
Her breathing changed.
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Look outside.”
I walked toward the window.
Agent Torres shouted.
“Claire, stop!”
Too late.
Across the street stood a man holding a phone.
He smiled at me.
Then he raised his other hand.
Inside it was Rachel’s necklace.
I spun around.
“Where’s my sister?”
Torres grabbed her radio.
May you like
Margaret laughed through the phone.
“Now we negotiate.”
