Chapter 9 - Blood Money and Betrayal
By evening, Bradley’s two older brothers—Mark, a former Army mechanic, and Liam, a licensed contractor—had arrived at the farm. They didn't ask questions. They unloaded trail cameras, motion-sensor lights, and checked the deadbolts on every door and window.
"We locked down the perimeter," Mark said, walking into the warm kitchen where Bridget was quietly chopping vegetables for soup. "If a stray raccoon walks across the driveway, we'll get a high-definition ping on our phones."
I sat on the sofa, feeling exhausted down to my bones. The morning’s adrenaline had faded, leaving me with the heavy fatigue of early pregnancy. Bradley brought me a glass of warm milk with honey, sitting beside me and pulling my feet into his lap, gently massaging my tired ankles.
"You need to rest, mama," he said softly, a tender smile softening his rugged features. "You fought a whole empire today."
"I just want it to be over," I whispered, resting my head against his broad shoulder. "I want to paint a nursery. I want to buy tiny socks and decide on crib mattresses without wondering if someone is going to break through the door."
"It will be over soon," he promised, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. "Caroline said the federal marshals are freezing all of Robert's assets at midnight. Once the money dries up, those mercenaries won't have a reason to lift a finger."
Just then, Bridget walked into the living room, holding her phone. Her hand was shaking so badly that the screen was rattling against her silver bracelet.
"Bridget?" I sat up straight. "What is it?"
"I just got an email," she said, her voice barely audible. "From Mother's personal lawyer. It wasn't meant for me. It was sent to Robert's private server, which I still have auto-forwarded to my tablet."
She turned the screen toward us.
It was a draft of a revised codicil to Grandmother Evelyn’s will. Dated three days before Grandmother’s death five years ago.
"Look at the witness signature," Bridget whispered.
May you like
I stared at the digitized document. The signature of the primary witness wasn't a stranger. It was Eleanor Hale. But what made my breath catch in my throat was the handwriting on the hospital admission log attached to the bottom of the email.
"Grandmother didn't die of natural cardiac arrest," I read aloud, my voice breaking. "She died of an acute digitalis toxicity... while Eleanor was staying with her in the hospice room."
