Chapter 9 - The Trap in the Living Room
Julian stood up slowly, his movements mechanical, his mind forced into a state of hyper-focused, lethal clarity. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, his fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of a Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol. He checked the magazine with a quiet, metallic click, chambered a round, and slipped the weapon into the waistband of his trousers behind his back.
He left the basement study, closing the heavy mahogany door softly behind him.
He walked up the carpeted stairs, his footsteps completely silent, making his way toward the main living room.
The living room was dark, lit only by the embers of the gas fireplace flickered against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Sitting on the plush leather sofa, sipping a glass of red wine, was Eleanor Vance. She wore a tailored black skirt suit, her dark hair immaculate, her expression serene and professional.
"Julian?" Eleanor turned her head, offering a warm, sympathetic smile as he stepped into the room. "Did you find the financial statements you were looking for downstairs?"
Julian didn't answer immediately. He walked over to the bar cart, pouring himself two fingers of scotch, his back turned to her.
"Eleanor," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, smooth as velvet. "How long have you worked for me?"
Eleanor blinked, slightly surprised by the question. "Seven years, Julian. You know that. Ever since the fund opened its third office."
"Seven years," Julian repeated, turning around to face her, taking a small sip of the amber liquid. "A long time to wait for a return on an investment."
Eleanor’s smile faltered slightly, her dark eyes narrowing in subtle caution. "I don't follow you, Julian. Are you feeling alright? You look pale."
"I was just looking through the old server archives," Julian said, stepping closer to the sofa. "The ones from the house security system. The ones Eleanor Vance thought she deleted from the cloud three months ago."
The air in the living room seemed to instantly freeze.
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Eleanor set her wine glass down on the glass coffee table with a tiny, delicate clink. Her sympathetic expression vanished, replaced by a cold, hardened stillness that mirrored the expression Vanessa had worn before her downfall.
"You always were too smart for your own good, Julian," Eleanor said quietly, her voice losing its warm, professional tone, decaying into a sharp, icy rasp. "That was Sarah's problem, too. She asked too many questions about her medication."
