Chapter 8 - The First Strike
I found the locker at the bus terminal with ease,
slipping the secure phone inside after memorizing its number,
and returned home just as the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows across the lawn.
Julian was fussy,
sensing my lingering tension,
and I spent the next two hours soothing him,
my mind constantly replaying the smooth exchange at the coffee shop.
When Nicholas arrived home,
he found me exactly where he expected:
sitting on the living room floor,
surrounded by baby toys,
looking exhausted and slightly confused.
"How was your day, darling?"
he asked,
loosening his tie and pouring himself a stiff drink from the crystal decanter on the side table.
"Quiet,"
I answered softly,
not looking up from Julian.
"I just stayed here,
tried to rest."
He took a slow sip of his bourbon,
his eyes lingering on me.
"You look... better today. Less pale."
"The vitamins,"
I lied flawlessly,
"I think they are finally starting to help."
He smiled,
a cold, victorious expression that made my stomach churn.
"I told you they would. Trust me, Sophie. I always know what is best for you."
Later that night,
after Nicholas had fallen asleep,
I crept down to the basement,
retrieving the burner phone from its hiding spot behind the coats.
I dialed the new secure number Marcus had provided,
praying he would answer.
"Yeah,"
the familiar gruff voice answered on the first ring.
"It’s me,"
I said,
keeping my voice to a harsh whisper.
"Did you get the retainer?"
"I got it,"
Marcus confirmed,
the sound of a lighter flicking echoing through the speaker.
"Thirty grand buys a lot of motivation, Mrs. Sterling. Now, what is the play?"
"The psychiatric records,"
I told him,
my voice hardening.
"Dr. Evans is the linchpin. If we break him, Nicholas's entire case crumbles."
"Arthur Evans is a respected professional,"
Marcus warned,
"He isn't going to roll over just because we ask nicely.
Men like him have skeletons,
but they bury them deep."
"Then start digging,"
I demanded,
the fierce architect returning,
taking control of the project.
"Find out what Nicholas is holding over him,
or find out what he is paying him.
Check offshore accounts,
gambling debts,
mistresses.
He is risking his license and his freedom to forge those documents;
he isn't doing it out of friendship."
"I have contacts at his bank,"
Marcus mused,
the sound of typing clicking softly in the background.
"I can start pulling his financial history.
If Sterling is paying him,
there will be a paper trail,
even if it's buried under shell corporations."
"What about my sister?"
I asked,
the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
"Elise is helping him. I heard them talking on the baby monitor."
"Your own sister?"
Marcus sounded genuinely surprised,
a rare emotion for a cynical private investigator.
"That is cold. What is her angle?"
"I don't know,"
I admitted,
tears prickling my eyes,
but I blinked them away angrily.
"Maybe money,
maybe jealousy.
I need you to look into her too.
Find out how deep she is in this."
"Consider it done,"
Marcus said,
his tone shifting to a sharp, professional edge.
"But listen to me, Sophie.
You are playing with fire.
Sterling is meticulous.
If he catches you acting out of character,
if he realizes you aren't taking those pills,
he will accelerate his timeline.
He won't wait for the court order;
he will find a way to have you committed immediately."
"I know,"
I whispered,
the reality of my situation settling heavily on my shoulders.
"I am being careful. He still thinks I am broken."
"Keep it that way,"
Marcus advised.
"I need forty-eight hours to dig into Evans.
Don't contact me unless it is an absolute emergency.
I will reach out when I have something."
"Understood,"
I said,
and hung up,
feeling a strange mixture of terror and relief.
I had launched the first strike.
The wheels were in motion,
and there was no turning back.
I stood in the dark basement,
staring at the small screen of the burner phone before hiding it again.
May you like
Nicholas Sterling had spent six months trying to make me believe I was crazy.
He was about to find out exactly what a crazy woman was capable of.
