My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped the phone. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Don’t go out there, my survival instinct screamed. Call Detective Martinez. Let the police handle it.
But Neil’s words echoed in my mind with terrifying authority: Look at what I had to do to get that body for the casket.
I looked back down the hallway toward Grace’s locked door. She was safe, sleeping peacefully. The house security system was armed.
Steeling my resolve, I walked to the kitchen, gripped a heavy chef’s knife from the wooden block, and stepped through the side door into the cold, dark garage.
The garage smelled of motor oil, old cardboard, and Neil’s cologne. His red metal toolbox sat on the far corner of his heavy wooden workbench. Every step I took toward it felt like walking toward a firing squad.
I reached the toolbox. I pulled open the heavy bottom drawer, rattling the wrenches and screwdrivers inside. I emptied them onto the table, exposing the black felt lining at the bottom. I dug my fingernails into the edge, prying upward.
With a sharp crack, the false bottom popped loose.
Inside lay a thick, manila envelope and a small, encrypted burner phone that was completely dead. I grabbed the envelope, my heart throat-high, and pulled out a stack of papers.
The first few pages were medical records—but they weren’t Grace’s. They belonged to a John Doe, an unidentified child from a county hospital two hours away, dated exactly two weeks before Grace’s supposed “accident.”
Beneath the medical records was a handwritten ledger. It contained dates, dollar amounts totaling hundreds of thousands of dollars, and a recurring name written in harsh, black ink: The Horizon Group.
But it was the document at the very bottom of the stack that made my knees completely give way, sending me crashing to the cold concrete floor of the garage.
It was a life insurance policy. A massive, corporate-sponsored policy worth five million dollars.
The policy wasn’t taken out by Neil.
The policy on Grace’s life had been taken out by me. My signature was bold, clear, and perfectly inked at the bottom of the page, dated three months before her disappearance. Next to it was a secondary document—a signed agreement stating that in the event of Grace Vance’s accidental death, the funds would be automatically routed into an offshore trust fund under my maiden name.
“No…” I gasped, staring at my own handwriting. “No, no, no. I never signed this. I’ve never seen this in my life!”
Suddenly, the overhead garage light flickered and died, plunging me into pitch blackness.
A heavy, metallic thud echoed from the driveway outside. Then, the sound of the side door to the kitchen slowly, deliberately creaking open.
A voice—low, mechanical, and unfamiliar—echoed through the dark house through the intercom speaker on the wall above me.
“Clara. We know she’s home. Bring her out, or we finish the job you paid us for two years ago.”
