Chapter 8 - THE TRAITOR INSIDE MY HOUSE
I had employed thirty-two people across the estate.
Some had worked for me longer than Chloe had been alive.
The idea that one of them might be helping Bernard felt personal.
Marcus treated it as operational.
“Everyone stays off-site until cleared.”
I hated the order.
It was necessary.
Phones were reviewed voluntarily where employees consented.
Access logs were compared.
Shift histories were reconstructed.
The problem was obvious.
Bernard did not need someone senior.
He needed someone invisible.
A gardener.
A temporary driver.
A maintenance contractor.
Someone who could move without attracting attention.
Daniel found the first irregularity.
A maintenance technician named Owen Pike had entered the east wing eleven times during the six weeks the cameras were disabled.
He had been hired through an outside contractor.
The contractor had no employee named Owen Pike.
The identity was fake.
Marcus pulled security footage from the gates.
Owen’s face appeared clearly.
Chloe identified him from a photograph.
“That’s Bernard’s driver.”
Julian stared at her.
“You knew he was coming here?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I believe anything?”
Chloe looked exhausted.
“You shouldn’t.”
The answer surprised him.
She continued.
“But you should verify everything.”
For once, I agreed with her.
Police circulated Owen’s photograph.
He had vanished.
Meanwhile, the pregnancy question remained.
Margaret arranged for a legally supervised prenatal paternity test.
Chloe resisted for twelve hours.
Then accepted.
Julian said almost nothing on the drive to the clinic.
I did not go inside.
That belonged to them.
When he returned, his face was unreadable.
“Results in several days.”
I nodded.
Chloe exited separately.
Before getting into her attorney’s car, she looked at me.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Why?”
“Because there are things I won’t say in front of Julian.”
That immediately made me suspicious.
Margaret advised recording the conversation.
Chloe laughed when she saw the recorder.
“Of course.”
I sat across from her in a private conference room.
“What?”
She folded her hands.
“I did target Julian.”
“I know.”
“I knew about the trust.”
“I know.”
“I knew about the deadline.”
“I know.”
“I slept with Victor.”
“I know.”
Her face tightened.
“Do you enjoy saying that?”
“No.”
“I enjoy not pretending.”
She looked away.
Then she spoke.
“I did not know about the forged amendment until two months ago.”
“Why stay?”
“Because Bernard threatened me.”
“With what?”
“Ethan.”
I stared at her.
“What about Ethan?”
“He had video.”
“Of?”
“Victor and me entering Ethan’s house after he died.”
My expression hardened.
“Why?”
“To recover the laptop.”
“So you participated in destroying evidence.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was ugly.
But useful.
“Did you kill Ethan?”
“No.”
“Did Victor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Bernard?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because Ethan called him.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Ethan told Bernard he was going to the FBI.”
Chloe looked down.
“The next morning, Ethan was dead.”
I felt cold.
“Why didn’t you leave then?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Leave and go where?”
“Police.”
“Against Bernard?”
“You had evidence.”
“I had evidence against myself too.”
There it was.
Fear mixed with selfishness.
Not innocence.
“What does Bernard want from my family?”
“Money.”
“That is too simple.”
Chloe looked at me.
“You fired him.”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“You humiliated him.”
“He stole from my husband’s company.”
“He says you destroyed his name.”
“He destroyed his own name.”
“I know.”
Her answer surprised me.
“He talked about you constantly.”
“Like you were the reason his life went wrong.”
I had seen that kind of person before.
Accountability felt unbearable, so blame became identity.
Chloe continued.
“He became obsessed with proving your family could be fooled.”
“So Julian was revenge.”
“And money.”
“Which mattered more?”
“At first?”
“Money.”
“And later?”
“Revenge.”
“Bernard wanted you to know he did it.”
That made sense.
Fraud alone would have remained hidden.
The forged amendment.
The photographs.
The taunts.
Those were theatrical.
Bernard wanted me watching.
“What was Owen supposed to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
“I don’t know.”
I leaned forward.
“Chloe.”
She met my eyes.
“If Owen entered the bedroom…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“He may have changed Julian’s medication.”
My heart stopped.
“Julian doesn’t take medication.”
“Sometimes he takes a prescription sleep aid when traveling.”
I knew that.
Rarely.
Only after long international trips.
Julian had returned from London ten days earlier.
I stood immediately.
“When?”
“What?”
“When was he supposed to take it?”
Chloe’s face went white.
“The night before the wedding.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
She shook her head.
“I swear I don’t know.”
I left the room and called Julian.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Marcus called security at the house.
Julian had returned twenty minutes earlier.
I called again.
Still nothing.
By the time we reached the estate, I was imagining every terrible possibility.
I ran upstairs.
Julian’s bedroom door was open.
He was not there.
His suitcase from London sat near the closet.
I opened the side pocket where he usually kept medication.
The prescription bottle was gone.
Marcus entered behind me.
“Where is he?”
“He told the driver he was walking to the lake.”
We found Julian on the path.
Alive.
Angry that we were running toward him.
“What happened?”
I grabbed his shoulders.
“Did you take anything?”
“What?”
“Medication.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I almost collapsed from relief.
We explained.
Julian’s face hardened.
“I threw those pills away two days ago.”
“Where?”
“Bathroom trash.”
Marcus looked toward security.
“Recover it.”
The bag had already been removed.
Trash from the estate was collected every morning.
Daniel tracked the service.
The waste had been taken to a private disposal facility.
Police requested access.
Hours later, the bottle was recovered.
Forensic testing began.
The next morning, laboratory results confirmed the pills inside were not Julian’s prescription.
They contained a powerful sedative mixture.
Enough, according to the toxicologist, to cause severe impairment.
Possibly respiratory distress when combined with alcohol.
Julian stared at the report.
“What was supposed to happen the night before my wedding?”
No one answered.
Then Chloe called.
She was crying.
“Victor remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
Julian asked.
“The plan.”
“What plan?”
“He said Bernard wanted you unconscious.”
“Why?”
Chloe’s breathing became uneven.
“So they could make it look like you had overdosed.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
Julian went completely still.
Chloe continued.
“You weren’t supposed to die.”
“They wanted you hospitalized.”
“Just long enough.”
“For what?”
Julian whispered.
“So I could marry you at the hospital chapel before midnight.”
The room became silent.
I almost thought I had misheard.
“What?”
I asked.
Chloe sobbed.
“Bernard said if you were frightened enough, drugged enough, and convinced you almost died, you would sign anything I put in front of you.”
My son stared at me.
The plot was more grotesque than I had imagined.
Then Chloe said one final thing.
“But Victor says Bernard changed the plan.”
My voice became cold.
May you like
“How?”
“He stopped caring whether Julian survived.”
