Chapter 2 - The Question That Broke the Altar
The ballroom went dead silent. The hum of the air conditioning sounded like a freight train in the hush that fell over three hundred of the city’s wealthiest elites.
Grant Sterling didn’t blink. His hand, which had held Juliette’s trembling fingers just moments before, hung loose at his side. His tuxedo was tailored to perfection, but his posture was that of a man who had suddenly realized he was standing on quicksand.
“Grant, darling, what are you saying?” Juliette’s voice fluttered, pitching higher, thin and brittle like cheap glass. “I was terrified! I screamed! You heard me scream! She’s supposed to be in a grave—look at her, she’s insane, she’s covered in rags!”
“You screamed *‘You’re dead,’* Juliette,” Grant said quietly. His baritone voice cut right through the crystal chandeliers. “Not *‘Caroline?’* Not *‘How are you alive?’* You didn’t look confused. You looked horrified that a body walked out of a crypt. You looked caught.”
My father, Arthur Mercer, swayed where he stood. The heavy champagne flute in his hand slipped, shattering against the white marble floor. Champagne hissed across the satin hem of Juliette’s twenty-thousand-dollar gown, but she didn’t even flinch at the stain. Her eyes were pinned entirely on Grant, panic flickering behind her painted lashes.
“Dad, tell him!” Juliette pleaded, reaching backward blindly toward our father. “She died at St. Jude’s burn ward three years ago! We held the funeral! We buried her ashes!”
“Did you bury her ashes, Juliette?” Marcus Vance’s voice scraped like gravel. The disgraced detective stepped forward, his trench coat worn at the cuffs, but his eyes razor-sharp. He pulled a thick manila folder from the open leather briefcase and slapped it onto the white altar table. “Because St. Jude’s never handled Caroline Mercer’s remains. A private crematorium in Blackwood County took custody of a Jane Doe transferred under a false transit manifest. A manifest signed by your personal assistant, paid from a shell company registered under your name.”
Gasps rippled through the front row of pews. Society matrons clutched their pearls; venture capitalists leaned in, whispering frantically behind raised programs.
“That’s slander!” cried Richard Mercer, our uncle and the chief financial officer of Mercer Global. He rose from his seat, face flushed red above his stiff collar. “Security! Get this lunatic cop and this trespassing vagrant out of here before I call the commissioner!”
“Call him, Richard,” Marcus said with a cold, humorless grin. “Please. Because the federal marshals are already waiting downstairs. The fraud charges alone on the forged inheritance transfer exceed fifty million dollars. But we aren’t just here for the money, are we?”
Marcus turned to look at me. The bandages around my neck chafed against the raw, pink graft tissue. The pain was an old companion, dull and throbbing, but right now, adrenaline made me feel weightless.
I took two steps forward. The soles of my bare feet were dusty from the marble steps, leaving faint gray prints on the pristine aisle runner.
“You wanted the Mercer Foundation, Juliette,” I said, my voice hoarse from years of smoke damage and neglected vocal cords. “You wanted the penthouse on 5th Avenue. And you wanted Mother’s emeralds.”
I pointed a shaking, scarred finger directly at her throat.
“Take it off,” I whispered.
May you like
Juliette clutched the emerald pendant with both hands, her knuckles whitening. “It’s mine! Mother gave it to me!”
“Mother died eight years ago, leaving that necklace in a blind trust specifically deeded to Caroline upon her twenty-fifth birthday,” my father muttered, his voice cracking down the middle. He stared at Juliette as if seeing a monster wearing his daughter’s skin. “Juliette... what did you do to your sister?”
