Chapter 3 - BRANDON STARTED SPENDING MY MONEY
By Saturday morning, I could stand for eleven seconds.
I counted.
Eleven.
Then my left hip gave up and the nurse caught me.
“Progress,” she said.
I wanted to laugh.
Instead I cried from frustration.
Across town, my funeral started at ten.
Marcus brought me a tablet.
“You don’t have to watch.”
“I know.”
That meant I would.
The livestream came from St. Matthew’s.
The church where Brandon and I married six years earlier.
I almost admired the theater of it.
White roses.
A closed mahogany coffin.
My wedding portrait beside the altar.
And Brandon.
Black suit.
Black tie.
Perfectly devastated.
Gretchen sat three rows behind him.
Too close.
Not close enough to look scandalous.
Exactly where a careful mistress would sit.
I watched people hug my husband.
Watched him lower his head.
Watched his shoulders shake at carefully timed intervals.
Samuel slept in a bassinet beside me.
He had graduated from the neonatal unit to a private monitored room.
Stable.
Breathing on his own.
I reached for him every few minutes as if he might disappear.
Then Brandon stood to speak.
“My wife was the strongest woman I knew.”
I nearly threw the tablet.
Dr. Ellis caught my hand.
“Maybe don’t injure the only arm that works properly.”
I ignored her.
Brandon continued.
“She loved our unborn son more than anything.”
My vision blurred.
“And I will spend the rest of my life honoring them both.”
I whispered:
“You won’t.”
Marcus looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Brandon spoke for seven minutes.
He cried twice.
Mentioned Samuel without using the name because we had never officially settled it.
He called him “our little boy.”
The rage surprised me.
Not because Brandon was lying.
Because he still spoke as if Samuel belonged to him.
After the service, the camera remained live.
People moved outside.
Then Gretchen approached.
Brandon hugged her.
Too long.
Not long enough to prove anything.
Marcus paused the video.
“Look at his hand.”
Brandon’s palm pressed flat against Gretchen’s lower back.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
Not grief support.
Habit.
“How long?” Marcus asked.
“I suspected six months.”
“Proof?”
“No.”
“Now?”
“I don’t care anymore.”
That surprised me when I said it.
The affair was not the real betrayal.
The cliff was.
Then Marcus placed a file on the table.
“Insurance company received a formal notice of death yesterday.”
I stared.
“He filed before the funeral?”
“Yes.”
“What did he submit?”
“Park incident report. Statement from Gretchen. Your damaged scarf. Preliminary search documentation.”
“He’s rushing.”
“Yes.”
“That helps?”
“Yes.”
Marcus turned a page.
“He also filed a petition for temporary control of your business interests.”
My chest tightened.
“Already?”
“He says Lancaster Freight requires immediate stabilization due to your death.”
“Meaning he wants voting control.”
“Exactly.”
I looked at Samuel.
This was never just fifty million.
Brandon wanted my father’s company.
My father had distrusted him.
I remembered.
Not openly.
Dad was too polite.
But once, six months before he died, he pulled me aside after Thanksgiving.
“Claire, men who talk about legacy too early usually mean someone else’s.”
I laughed then.
I wish I hadn’t.
“Who is opposing him?” I asked.
“Your board is split.”
“Who supports him?”
“Your CFO, Martin Bell. Two outside directors.”
Martin.
Another name that hurt.
He had been my father’s protégé.
“Who opposes?”
“Your aunt Eleanor.”
I exhaled.
Aunt Eleanor owned twelve percent.
She had hated Brandon since our engagement.
At family dinners she called him “the brochure,” because she said everything about him looked pre-approved by marketing.
“What has Eleanor said?”
Marcus almost smiled.
“That your husband can pry control from her cold, dead hands.”
I closed my eyes.
“That sounds like her.”
“She also called his petition indecent.”
“Also her.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“You should know Brandon may be planning to sell part of the company.”
I stared.
“What?”
“One of your board members contacted Eleanor. Brandon has discussed ‘strategic alternatives.’”
“Sell to who?”
“Unknown.”
My chest tightened.
My father built Lancaster Freight over thirty-four years.
Brandon had been a consultant when I met him.
He could not take it apart after killing me.
“No.”
Marcus watched me.
“Then we need evidence fast enough to stop him legally.”
“What do you have?”
“Not enough for attempted murder yet.”
I stared.
“You have my statement.”
“Yes.”
“A rescue team saw where I was.”
“They found you. They did not see the push.”
“Gretchen heard him.”
“Gretchen is supporting him.”
I looked back at the frozen funeral image.
“What if she turns?”
“Why would she?”
I thought.
Greed.
Fear.
Jealousy.
People like Brandon did not create loyal partners.
They created temporary allies.
“Can you pressure her?”
“Not without revealing too much.”
Then another thought came.
“His phone.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Need a warrant.”
“Insurance fraud?”
“Not enough yet.”
I hated process.
Process felt obscene when someone had tried to murder me.
Marcus seemed to understand.
“Patience.”
“I fell off a cliff.”
“I know.”
“Don’t tell me patience.”
He let me be angry.
That helped.
At noon, Aunt Eleanor called Marcus’s secure line.
Not mine.
Mine was officially dead.
He put her on speaker.
“Detective?”
“Yes.”
“I was told you have information for me.”
Marcus looked at me.
Then nodded.
I spoke.
“Aunt Ellie.”
Silence.
Then a sound I had never heard from Eleanor Lancaster.
A sob.
“Claire?”
I started crying too.
“I’m alive.”
“Oh my God.”
“And the baby.”
Another sob.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Brandon pushed me.”
The silence afterward felt violent.
Then:
“I’m going to kill him.”
Marcus sighed.
“Aunt Ellie, please do not say that on a police line.”
“Fine. I am going to imagine killing him.”
Better.
I smiled despite everything.
We told her only what she needed.
Stay quiet.
Block Brandon from controlling the company.
Do not alert him.
Eleanor became cold instantly.
“I can hold the board.”
“You’re sure?”
“He needs five votes.”
“How many does he have?”
“Four.”
“Can he buy another?”
“Not if I get there first.”
Marcus frowned.
“Please do not bribe anyone.”
Eleanor said:
“I said get there first. This family has lawyers for a reason.”
I laughed, then winced because laughing still hurt my ribs.
Before hanging up, Eleanor said:
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Your father was right about him.”
My eyes filled.
“I know.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“He was also wrong about you.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“He worried you were too trusting to run the company.”
I stared.
“Apparently surviving murder has made you less trusting.”
I laughed through tears.
“Love you too.”
“Stay alive.”
That afternoon, another report arrived.
Brandon had moved.
Not emotionally.
Financially.
A $400,000 transfer from one of our joint investment accounts into an account I did not recognize.
Then another.
Two hundred fifty thousand.
Then a charge at a luxury jewelry store.
I stared at Marcus.
“Jewelry?”
“Twenty-eight thousand.”
“For the funeral?”
“Probably not.”
Gretchen.
Brandon’s wife had been “dead” four days and he was buying the mistress jewelry.
“Can you prove the account is hers?”
“Not yet.”
Then Marcus’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He put the call on speaker.
A woman’s voice came through.
“This is Dana Lowell from Great Western Life.”
The insurer.
My insurer.
“We received a second communication from Mr. Bennett.”
“What kind?” Marcus asked.
“He wants to know whether an accelerated review is possible because he claims the estate is facing liquidity problems.”
I laughed.
Aunt Eleanor would have called that offensive.
Marcus asked:
“Did he mention the child?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did he say?”
Dana hesitated.
“That the death of his unborn son compounded his financial hardship because certain trust structures were expected to activate after birth.”
I went completely still.
He was already discussing Samuel in terms of money.
Before supposedly burying us.
Dana continued.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Mr. Bennett asked whether the insurer requires recovery of remains in accidental death claims involving wilderness falls.”
Marcus and I looked at each other.
“Why would he ask that?”
“He said he wanted closure.”
No.
He wanted certainty.
He wanted to know how long he had before someone asked why there was no body.
Then Dana said:
“And he asked if toxicology would be required if remains were later discovered.”
My blood went cold.
“Toxicology?”
Marcus leaned forward.
“Did he say why?”
“He claimed Claire had taken prescription medication during pregnancy.”
I stared.
“I took prenatal vitamins.”
Marcus’s face hardened.
Brandon was building a second story.
If a body appeared later—
he wanted drugs in the narrative.
“Which medication?” Marcus asked.
“An anti-anxiety prescription.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
I had never had one.
Marcus wrote something down.
Then looked at me.
“This just became more interesting.”
“How?”
“He’s inventing medical history before anyone asked.”
A guilty man preparing explanations.
That was evidence.
Maybe not enough.
But movement.
Then Dr. Ellis entered carrying Samuel.
“Someone wants his mother.”
Everything stopped again.
I held him.
He opened his eyes.
Dark.
Unfocused.
Beautiful.
Marcus watched us.
Then said quietly:
“Claire.”
I looked up.
“We may have a way to force Brandon to expose himself.”
“What?”
“His insurance claim.”
“How?”
“If he believes they need more proof of accidental death, he may try to create it.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of proof?”
Marcus did not answer immediately.
Then:
“A body.”
I froze.
“You think he would fake one?”
“I think a man who shoved his pregnant wife off a cliff for money may be capable of improving his paperwork.”
I looked at Samuel.
Then at the funeral livestream still paused on Brandon’s grieving face.
“How do we make him nervous?”
Marcus closed the tablet.
“By letting him hear that the insurer is refusing to pay without stronger confirmation.”
My pulse quickened.
“You want to bait him.”
“Yes.”
“And if he tries something?”
“We watch.”
I looked down at Samuel.
A week ago, I had been afraid of dying.
Now I was afraid of surviving badly.
Of letting rage make me reckless.
I kissed my son’s forehead.
“Do it.”
Because Brandon wanted fifty million dollars.
And greed had already pushed him off one moral cliff.
May you like
Maybe all we had to do was give him another edge.
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