Chapter 11 - The Empty Shell
Julian stood up slowly, still holding Lily tightly against his hip. The cold rain felt suddenly distant, dulled by the ominous weight in Agent Vance's voice.
"What do you mean, look at something?" Julian asked, his voice shaking.
Vance gestured toward the open bronze doors of the mausoleum. Julian walked up the marble steps, flanked by two federal agents. Inside, the work lights cast long, stark shadows across the granite walls and stacked bags of cement. Clara’s white lacquer casket sat precariously on the iron rollers leading into the wall crypt.
The lid had been pried open by the forensic team.
Julian walked forward, his breath hitching in his throat. He looked down into the satin-lined interior, bracing himself for the sight of his wife's lifeless face.
The casket was empty.
Inside lay only three weighted sandbags and a bouquet of withered white lilies.
Julian’s vision swirled. He gripped the edge of the polished mahogany trim to keep from collapsing. "Where is she? Where is Clara?"
He spun around to face his mother. Evelyn was being escorted toward a tactical vehicle, her hands cuffed behind her back. Hearing Julian's shout, she paused, turning her bruised, blood-streaked face toward him.
A chilling, triumphant smirk curved her swollen lips.
"Did you really think I would keep the body here after the house caught fire, Julian?" she called out through the rain. "I am a businesswoman. I never keep all my assets in one vault."
Agent Vance immediately stepped between them, his face darkening. "Where is Clara Blackwood's body, Evelyn?"
"Find it yourself," she spat, before being shoved into the back of the armored transport. The heavy door slammed shut, severing her cruel laughter.
Julian dropped to his knees inside the mausoleum. "She’s gone. She’s completely gone."
Lily touched his cheek with her cold, small fingers. "Daddy... look."
She was pointing at the bottom of the empty casket. Beneath the silk pillows, something small and white was tucked into the pleats of the fabric. Julian reached in, his fingers brushing against a stiff piece of parchment.
It was a clinical medical intake form from the St. Jude Rest Home—a private, high-security psychiatric facility located eighty miles north, deep in the Adirondack mountains, entirely funded by the Blackwood family trust.
The date stamped on the intake form was yesterday afternoon.
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And written in bold red ink at the bottom of the intake document were two words that stopped Julian's heart:
PATIENT ALIVE. CONDITION: COMATOSE.
