Chapter 10 - The Ledger of Blood
Marlow had his departmental laptop brought up to the ICU family conference room. We set up base camp thirty feet from Ethan’s room, leaving an armed uniform officer stationed at Ethan’s door with strict orders: shoot anyone who approaches without Marlow’s express clearance.
Marlow plugged the thumb drive into his laptop. A decryption prompt popped up.
"It’s password-protected," Marlow muttered. "Twenty-four-character encryption. If Julian used high-end security, this could take cyber units days to crack."
I stared at the blinking cursor. Ten years of guilt, memory, and regret swirled in my mind. Julian was arrogant, but he was sentimental about his conquests. And Ethan had obtained this drive somehow.
"Try Mara’s birthday," I said. "July 19, 1968."
Marlow typed: *07191968.*
*Access Denied. 2 Attempts Remaining.*
"Don't guess again," Marlow warned. "It could trigger a wipe script."
I closed my eyes. What did Julian care about? Not Mara. Not me. He cared about his own glory. He cared about the day he got away with it.
"Try the date Mara died," I whispered. "November 14, 2014. Followed by the digits of the trust fund he stole."
"How much was the trust?"
"Fifty thousand," I recalled Julian telling me. But the bank documents in Box 314 told a different story. The original trust from Ethan’s biological father wasn't fifty grand. It was *five hundred thousand dollars.*
"Type: *11142014-500K*," I said.
Marlow hit Enter.
A green progress bar flashed. The drive unlocked.
Dozens of folders cascaded across the screen: offshore banking transfers, offshore shell companies registered in Belize, scanned deeds to properties across Oregon and Washington, and a hidden folder titled simply: *HALE_DISPOSAL.*
Marlow clicked it.
My breath hitched. Inside were digital photos taken through telephoto lenses.
Photos of me.
Me chopping firewood in my front yard five years ago. Me buying groceries in our small town. Me standing at Mara’s headstone on the anniversary of her death.
And then, photos of Ethan.
Ethan working in a dim archiving basement. Ethan walking home with groceries in the rain. Ethan sitting on a park bench, reading.
Julian hadn't just blackmailed Ethan and cast him aside; he had been stalking both of us for ten straight years.
"He was keeping tabs on both of you," Marlow said grimly, scrolling through the logs. "Making sure Ethan never broke the silence, and making sure you never started asking questions. But look at this folder: *OFFSHORE_LIQUIDATION_2024.*"
The documents inside were dated just last week. Julian was broke. His real estate investments had cratered again. He had taken out a second mortgage on his firm, and the state bar was auditing his client trust accounts.
"Julian was liquidating the remaining remnants of Mara’s estate," Marlow realized, pointing at the transfer authorizations. "To do that, he needed the original probate documents closed permanently. And under Oregon probate law, an open estate cannot be fully dissolved if an heir of the deceased is missing without a declared death certificate."
The pieces fell together with brutal clarity.
"Julian didn't hit Ethan by accident," I whispered, the horror curling in my stomach. "Ethan came back to Oregon because the probate court contacted him about the liquidation. Julian found out Ethan was back in Portland, and Julian had to kill him. Because if Ethan died, Julian was the executor. The remaining seven hundred thousand dollars in the real estate trust would transfer directly into Julian’s offshore accounts."
"And if Ethan survived," Marlow finished, "Ethan would blow the whistle on ten years of embezzlement, forgery, and murder."
The door to the conference room opened. A young uniform officer stood there, face pale.
"Detective Marlow? We have a situation at the lobby."
"What situation?"
May you like
"Julian Vance didn't run," the officer said. "He just walked into the lobby with two defense attorneys and the Chief of Police. He’s claiming Mr. Hale is unstable, armed, and harassing him."
***
