Chapter 1 - The Broken Seal
The drive away from Oakridge Cemetery felt like steering through underwater current. Rain began to smear across my windshield, turning the red taillights of the funeral procession into long, bleeding streaks. In my rearview mirror, Travis’s dark SUV pulled out of the cemetery gates two seconds behind me. He wasn’t tailgating, but he wasn’t letting me out of his sight either.
My knuckles were white against the leather steering wheel. On the passenger seat, my phone screen flickered again. I didn't dare look down until I hit the interstate, merging hard into the fast lane and putting three semi-trucks between my sedan and Travis’s vehicle.
When I finally tapped the screen at a red light miles away, the photo was still there.
Evan. His left cheek was purple with a severe contusion, his dark hair matted with dried blood. But his eyes—our shared storm-gray eyes—were open, fierce, and focused. Held against his chest was today’s edition of the local paper, The Oakridge Sentinel. The front-page headline was unmistakable: LOCAL ARCHITECT EVAN VANE DIES IN TRAGIC FREAK ACCIDENT.
My phone buzzed again. An unknown number this time.
He’s waiting at the old quarry cabin. Don’t go home. Travis already has the watch.
My throat went dry. Travis had the watch? How? Dad’s vintage 1970s Omega chronograph had been sitting in the safe in Mom’s study since the day Dad died six years ago. If Travis already had it, that meant my mother had handed over the key before the funeral even started.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator, bypassing the turnoff to our family home and heading straight into the thick pine forests bordering the northern ridge.
The quarry cabin had been abandoned since our grandfather stopped logging in the nineties. As I pulled down the overgrown dirt track, branches clawed at my car’s paintwork. Rain had turned the clay into a mud bath. I killed the headlights fifty yards away and coasted into the shadows beneath a canopy of towering firs.
I grabbed an iron tire iron from the trunk and approached the porch. The air smelled of wet decay and woodsmoke.
"Evan?" I whispered, kicking open the warped front door.
A shadow detached itself from the gloom near the broken stone fireplace. A heavy flashlight beam struck my face, blinding me.
"Step inside and shut the door, Liam," a voice rasped.
It was Evan’s voice, but stripped of its usual warmth—harsh, thin, and terrified.
I kicked the door shut behind me. Evan lowered the light. In the dim amber glow of a battery-powered lantern, my twin looked like a ghost that hadn't finished dying.
"Jesus, Evan," I breathed, dropping the tire iron. I stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders. He was cold, trembling, but he was solid. Flesh and bone. "You're alive. How... who the hell is in that casket?"
Evan swallowed hard, wincing as he touched his swollen ribs. "His name was Julian Vance. A homeless guy from the downtown shelter. We had the exact same height, build, and blood type. Someone dressed him in my clothes, smashed his face beyond recognition, and dropped him off the suspension bridge in my truck."
"Mom identified the body," I said, the realization settling over me like a sheet of ice. "She went into the morgue alone. She told the coroner she didn't want us to suffer seeing you like that."
"She didn't want you to look closely," Evan corrected bitterly. "Because you would have noticed the scar on his right hand was missing. Liam, Mom isn't grieving. She’s collecting."
"Collecting what?"
"Dad’s life insurance was only the beginning," Evan said, leaning against the cold mantle. "Three months ago, Mom and Travis took out an umbrella corporate policy on my architectural firm. Fifty million dollars for key-man term life. The payout goes directly to a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under Mom's maiden name."
The floor beneath me seemed to tilt. "Mom? She tried to kill you for money?"
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"Not just Mom," Evan whispered, stepping closer so his words were barely above the sound of the rain battering the tin roof. "Travis is running the operation. But Mom is the architect. She planned this years ago. And Liam... Dad didn't die of a heart attack six years ago either."
Before I could answer, the beam of headlights swept across the cabin's dirt-streaked front windows.
