Chapter 19 - The Sister with Clean Hands
The cold steel of Catherine's revolver pressed against the soft indentation behind my ear was unwavering. There was no tremor in her touch. Her breath smelled faintly of peppermint and expensive roast coffee.
"Slide your weapon onto the bed, Mark. Two fingers. Gently," Catherine whispered, her voice displaying the terrifying equilibrium of a veteran litigator addressing a judge.
I didn't argue. I uncurled my fingers from the Glock and let it drop onto the mattress beside Evelyn. The elderly nurse let out a muffled whimper through the duct tape, her eyes pleading with me.
"Good boy," Catherine said smoothly, taking a half-step back but keeping her gun leveled at the center of my chest.
She wore a dark trench coat over a tailored charcoal suit. Her wet blonde hair was swept back into an immaculate low bun. She didn't look like an intruder; she looked like an executive visiting an underperforming branch office.
"You're too late, Catherine," I said, trying to buy time, listening intently for any sound outside. Had Khloe stayed in the truck? Did she hear the door? "Khloe heard the recording. We have the flash drive. We have the key to Vault 402."
Catherine let out a small, amused sigh, tilting her head. "Do you honestly think Isabella managed to steal that key and that tape from my penthouse safe without my permission?"
A cold weight dropped into my stomach. "What are you talking about?"
"Isabella is a blunt instrument, Mark. She always has been," Catherine explained calmly, her revolver never dipping an inch. "When she tried to take Khloe’s embryos, she thought she was securing her inheritance. She was so loud, so clumsy, so desperate. She made the perfect distraction. While you and Khloe were spending six months playing amateur detectives, looking at security footage and analyzing hospital floor tiles, I successfully transferred ninety percent of Dad’s international portfolio into my offshore holdings."
"Then why are you here?" I demanded. "If you have the money, why break into an old woman's house in the middle of the night?"
"Because of the ten percent that remains," Catherine replied, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. "The ten percent Dad hid in Vault 402. That safe doesn't just open with a key, Mark. It opens with a dual-key mechanism and a blood-match biometric release. Dad updated the lock system two months before he died. He knew I would try to take it. So he coded the safe to open only in the presence of his biological heir."
She smiled, a thin, razor-sharp curve of red lips.
"He didn't code it to me. And he certainly didn't code it to Isabella."
I stared at her, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. "Khloe."
"Khloe," Catherine confirmed. "The golden child. The precious miracle baby born late in his life. The child he protected by burying the truth about who she really was."
Catherine stepped sideways, motioning with the barrel of the gun toward the hallway. "Call her inside, Mark. Tell her Evelyn has the documents she needs. Tell her to bring the baby. If you try to scream or run, I will shoot you through the spine, walk out to that truck, and take my sister and nephew myself. Your choice."
"You won't shoot me," I challenged, holding her gaze. "The neighbors will hear. You pride yourself on clean hands, Catherine. You're the respectable sister. The one without a criminal record."
"Respectability is a luxury for people who have already secured their freedom," Catherine whispered, her finger tightening slightly on the trigger. "Call her."
Suddenly, from the darkness of the front living room, a voice rang out—not Khloe's.
"She’s not coming in, Catherine."
Catherine’s head snapped toward the hallway.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, drenched in rain, wearing a stained trench coat and holding a heavy brass fire iron, was Isabella.
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