Chapter 9 - The Edge of the Atlantic
The wind off the Maine coast was savage.
Cold salt spray blew through the towering pines as Ethan and Claire stepped out of the Volvo. The roar of the Atlantic pounding against the jagged rocks of Pemaquid Point sounded like continuous thunder.
Inside the darkened cottage, a single yellow lamp flickered through the front window.
"Claire, this is madness," Ethan hissed, grabbing her forearm. His clothes were soaked through within seconds by the driving mist. "Call the State Police. Let them handle this."
Claire pulled her arm from his grip with effortless disdain. "The police will arrest Marcus for fraud. They will give him seven years in a minimum-security facility, and he will be paroled in three. That is not justice for my father."
She racked the hammer of the .38 revolver with a sharp, metallic click that echoed over the wind.
She walked up the wooden steps of the porch. The front door stood ajar, swinging slightly in the gale.
Ethan had no choice. He followed her into the dark house.
The interior smelled of old cedar, damp wool, and woodsmoke. A fire crackled weakly in the stone hearth.
Sitting in a leather armchair facing the door was Marcus Vance.
He looked ruined. His tailored suit was covered in mud, his tie was ripped away, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the table beside him. On his lap rested a heavy semiautomatic pistol.
When Claire and Ethan entered, Marcus didn't raise the weapon. He simply looked up, his bloodshot eyes fixing on Claire with a mixture of exhaustion and bitter admiration.
"I should have known," Marcus rasped, taking a slow sip directly from the bottle. "The anonymous text. The GPS coordinates. It was always you, wasn't it, Claire?"
"Where are your men, Marcus?" Claire asked, keeping the revolver leveled directly at his chest.
Marcus let out a ragged, rasping laugh. "Colvin? He abandoned me the second the federal alerts hit the wire. Took my emergency cash and my passport and drove south. I’m alone, Claire. Just me and the ocean."
Ethan stepped forward, his fists clenched. "You used me, Marcus. For fourteen years, you made me believe we were partners. You stole four million dollars using my name!"
Marcus turned his gaze toward Ethan, his lip curling into a sneer of pure venom. "You were an idiot, Ethan. You were an arrogant, entitled boy who thought he was a titan of industry because his daddy left him a golden chair. You didn't look at a single balance sheet for five years! You were too busy playing golf and sniffing after marketing interns!"
Ethan flinched, the words cutting deeper than any blade.
"I didn't kill your father, Claire," Marcus said, turning back to her. "My father and Charles Whitmore made that decision. I was twenty-two years old. I just inherited the lie."
"You profited from it," Claire said, her voice shaking slightly with the first true flash of rage Ethan had seen in forty-eight hours. "You built Whitmore-Vance on my father’s grave. You took the land that belonged to my family and turned it into luxury condominiums."
Marcus set the bourbon bottle down. His hand slid slowly toward the pistol on his lap.
"The documents aren't in this house, are they?" Marcus asked softly.
"No," Claire said. "The documents are already at the Attorney General’s office in Augusta."
Marcus sighed. A terrible, hollow calm settled over his face.
"Then why bring me here, Claire? Why bring Ethan?"
Claire stepped forward into the glow of the hearth. "Because you're going to call the federal prosecutor right now, on speakerphone. You're going to admit that Ethan had no knowledge of the Seaport wire transfers. You're going to clear his name."
Ethan froze. He looked at Claire in total shock. "Claire... what?"
Marcus stared at her, then broke into a loud, hysterical laugh that echoed off the cedar rafters. "You brought me here to save him? After what he did to you? After he paraded Natalie Pierce through the lobby of the Halston?"
"Ethan is a coward," Claire said, her voice cold and steady. "He is weak, vain, and disloyal. But he is not a thief. And he is not a murderer. I will not let you drag him into your father's filth."
Marcus stopped laughing. His eyes narrowed, turning dark and feral.
"I’m not spending the rest of my life in a federal cage, Claire," Marcus whispered.
In one fluid motion, Marcus raised his pistol from his lap.
*BANG.*
Claire fired first.
The round from the .38 struck Marcus in the right shoulder, knocking him back into the leather chair. His gun fired wild, blowing a hole through the floorboards.
Marcus roared in pain, lunging forward off the chair with his left arm, tackling Claire around the waist.
Both of them crashed violently against the low coffee table, sending the bourbon bottle shattering across the rug. The revolver flew from Claire’s hand, skittering across the floor toward the open front door.
"Claire!" Ethan screamed.
Marcus pinned Claire to the floorboards, his left hand clamping violently around her throat. Blood from his shoulder wound dripped onto her white face.
"You ruined me!" Marcus snarled, his face twisted in madness. "I’ll drown you in the same ocean your father died in!"
Ethan didn't think.
For the second time that day, all his cowardice, all his hesitation vanished.
He grabbed the heavy iron fire poker from the hearth and swung it with both hands.
The iron struck Marcus across the back of the neck with a sickening, heavy thud.
Marcus went completely limp, collapsing face-first onto the shattered glass.
Ethan stood over him, heaving for breath, the iron poker shaking in his blood-slicked palms.
Claire lay on the floor, gasping for air, her hands clutching her bruised throat. She looked up at Ethan through strands of tangled hair.
For several long seconds, the only sound in the cottage was the howling of the wind outside and the ragged rhythm of their breathing.
Ethan dropped the poker. He knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he reached out to help her up. "Claire... are you alright?"
Claire slapped his hands away.
She pushed herself up against the hearth, coughing weakly, her dark eyes flashing with fire.
"Don't touch me," she gasped.
Ethan sank back onto his heels. Tears finally spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the rain and sweat on his face.
"I saved your life," he whispered.
Claire pulled herself to her feet, leaning against the stone mantelpiece. She looked down at him with an expression of heartbreaking, final clarity.
May you like
"You saved yourself, Ethan," she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken. "You just don't know it yet."
***
