Chapter 6 - THE PRICE OF MY SIGNATURECharles Mayhew talked.
Not immediately.
First came four hours of denials.
Then his attorney arrived.
Then investigators showed him the recordings.
The ledger.
The forged documents.
The payment from a company linked to Victor Soren.
By dawn, Mayhew understood he was no longer protecting powerful people.
He was becoming their sacrifice.
So he talked.
Evelyn had hired him fourteen months earlier.
His instructions were simple at first.
Create mild symptoms.
Fatigue.
Headaches.
Weakness.
Nothing catastrophic.
The goal was to convince me that running Marlowe Infrastructure was damaging my health.
Then Rodrigo would encourage me to step back.
During that period, forged corporate resolutions would transfer control of the Santa Monica tract.
But I became pregnant.
The plan paused.
According to Mayhew, Evelyn became impatient.
Soren became more impatient.
The Pacific Arc project depended on acquiring my parcel before a zoning hearing.
Hundreds of millions were at stake.
“Did Evelyn tell you to harm my baby?” I asked.
We were watching the interrogation remotely.
Daniel didn’t want me there.
I insisted.
Mayhew rubbed his forehead on the screen.
“She told me the pregnancy complicated things.”
The detective asked, “What did that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were administering medication.”
“Low doses.”
“To a pregnant woman.”
“I didn’t know at first.”
“But later?”
Mayhew stopped.
“When did you learn?”
“Two weeks before she lost the child.”
My stomach twisted.
“And you continued?”
“Yes.”
The detective’s voice hardened.
“Why?”
“Evelyn said the doctor knew.”
A lie.
Of course.
“Did you increase the dose?”
Mayhew’s eyes filled with panic.
“One time.”
“When?”
“Three days before the hospital.”
I turned away from the screen.
Daniel put a hand on the table between us.
Not touching me.
Just there.
Steady.
The detective asked:
“Who ordered the increased dose?”
Mayhew whispered:
“Victor Soren.”
The next morning, federal investigators joined the case.
Victor Soren had money across state lines, shell companies, electronic transfers, bribery allegations.
What began as a domestic assault was becoming a federal conspiracy investigation.
The press exploded.
Valez family representatives denied everything.
Soren called Mayhew a disgruntled former contractor.
Evelyn’s attorney claimed she had been framed.
Sebastian remained missing.
Bianca finally appeared with her attorney.
She wanted immunity.
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
But Bianca’s betrayal hurt differently.
She had sat beside me in the hospital after Grace died.
She had held my hand.
Now she admitted notarizing forged documents.
“I didn’t know about the medication,” she told prosecutors.
She knew about the financial scheme.
Evelyn had told her the Valez family deserved protection.
That Rodrigo’s marriage entitled them to my wealth.
That I was selfish for keeping Marlowe assets separate.
Bianca notarized documents because Evelyn promised her ownership in one of Soren’s developments.
“How much?” I asked Daniel after reviewing the transcript.
“Her expected share was about three million.”
Three million.
That was the price she put on my trust.
Rodrigo became the government’s most complicated witness.
He admitted knowing about forged financial paperwork.
He denied knowing I was being drugged.
Evidence mostly supported him.
Mostly.
That word mattered.
He had been weak.
Dishonest.
Greedy.
But investigators found no direct evidence he knew Evelyn intended physical harm.
For days, I wrestled with what that meant.
Did ignorance excuse him?
No.
Did it make him innocent?
Not entirely.
He had chosen not to ask questions because the answers might inconvenience him.
There was guilt in that too.
A week after the investigation became public, I returned to the mansion.
Not to live.
To pack.
The staff had been given paid leave.
The house felt enormous without people.
I entered Grace’s nursery.
We had never changed it.
Her crib remained beside the window.
A stuffed rabbit sat on the shelf.
Rodrigo found me there.
He stood in the doorway.
“I thought you weren’t allowed inside,” I said.
“My lawyer cleared it with Daniel.”
I nodded.
He stared at the crib.
“I come here sometimes.”
“Why?”
“To remember who I thought I was.”
I looked at him.
“And who was that?”
“A good husband.”
The sadness in his face was real.
That didn’t erase anything.
He walked toward the dresser and opened the top drawer.
Tiny clothes.
Never worn.
He picked up one sock.
“I kept telling myself I didn’t know what Mom was doing.”
“You didn’t.”
“But I knew enough to know something was wrong.”
I said nothing.
“She asked about your medication constantly. She wanted your schedule. She wanted to know when you were tired.”
My body went cold.
“You never thought that was strange?”
“I did.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because every time I questioned her, she reminded me the family would collapse without Soren.”
There it was again.
Cowardice disguised as duty.
Rodrigo set down the sock.
“I chose them.”
“Yes.”
“I chose them over you.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“Good.”
His eyes filled.
“I’m going to testify.”
“You said that.”
“Even if it sends my mother to prison.”
“Do it because it’s right, Rodrigo. Not because you think it earns your way back to me.”
He nodded.
Then he handed me a folded piece of paper.
“What is this?”
“A list.”
“Of what?”
“People Sebastian met with.”
I unfolded it.
Lawyers.
Bankers.
City officials.
One name stopped me.
Councilman Thomas Reed.
Chairman of the zoning committee overseeing Pacific Arc.
“He’s been taking money from Soren,” Rodrigo said.
“How do you know?”
“I drove Sebastian to a meeting once.”
“Why wasn’t this in your statement?”
“I remembered last night.”
I studied him.
“Or you were still protecting someone.”
He didn’t answer.
I folded the paper.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel.
“Elena, we found Sebastian.”
“Where?”
“LAX.”
“Leaving?”
“Trying to.”
“For where?”
“Argentina.”
“Did police get him?”
“Yes.”
Daniel paused.
“And he had something in his luggage.”
“What?”
“A passport.”
“So?”
“It wasn’t his.”
My pulse slowed.
“Whose?”
Daniel said:
“Victor Soren’s.”
That didn’t make sense.
Until it did.
Sebastian wasn’t running from Soren.
He was running with him.
But Soren had never reached the airport.
His phone was off.
His home was empty.
His private jet remained grounded.
And investigators soon discovered that $42 million had disappeared from one of his corporate accounts overnight.
Victor Soren was gone.
Two days later, a package arrived at Daniel’s office.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph of me entering Grace’s nursery.
Taken through the window.
On the back, someone had written:
The land was always cheaper than revenge.
Underneath were three initials.
R.M.M.
My father’s initials.
May you like
Richard Michael Marlowe.
A man who had been dead for sixteen years.
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