The Ledger of the Forgotten

The marble landing was stained with the stark, accusing smear of blood where Evelyn’s head had struck.

Grant Whitmore stood over her motionless form, his expensive wool coat brushing against the blue metal box as his chest heaved with residual rage.

“Get up, Evelyn,” he barked, his voice sharp with irritation rather than panic. “Stop playing the victim for the neighbors.”

Vanessa Caldwell adjusted the strap of her emerald-green dress, her manicured nails tapping nervously against her diamond bracelet.

“Grant, look at her forehead,” Vanessa whispered, her voice tightening as a dark circle of crimson began to pool on the white stone. “She’s not moving. If the police get involved, the merger with Vanguard Holdings will be delayed by weeks.”

Grant frowned, crouching down to grab Evelyn’s shoulder.

“Evelyn. Come on. This is absurd.”

He shook her.

No response.

Her skin was unnaturally cold, her chest completely still beneath the heavy winter coat.

Panic finally flickered behind Grant’s eyes.

“Call an ambulance,” he muttered, standing up abruptly. “Tell them it was a fall. Say she tripped on the stairs.”

“No need,” a quiet, gravelly voice echoed from the end of the paved driveway.

Grant spun around.

Standing by the wrought-iron gates were four men in dark, tailored suits, their shoulders broad, their posture projecting an absolute, chilling stillness that made the hair on Grant’s arms stand up.

At the center of the group stood Vincent Moretti.

His silver-threaded dark hair caught the harsh glare of the security floodlights, and his ice-gray eyes fixed on Grant with a terrifying, absolute calm.