Chapter 5 - The Beneficiary Clause
By 11:30 AM, I returned to the Lakeview apartment building.
I took the elevator up to the sixth floor. As the doors slid open with that familiar mechanical CLANK, I saw Claire standing in the hallway outside her door, holding a bag of groceries.
She wore a cashmere sweater, her blond hair pinned back neatly. She looked like a grieving, elegant widow returning from a morning trip to the organic market.
"Emily!" she exclaimed, her face instantly lighting up with concern. "Ryan said you went out to the pharmacy! You shouldn't be walking around in this cold weather, honey. Look how pale you are!"
I looked at her—the woman who had sat on my couch, wept over her husband's casket, and brought me cups of poisoned soup every evening for three months.
"I felt a little better after taking my morning meds, Claire," I said, forcing a soft, grateful smile onto my face. "The fresh air actually helped."
Claire stepped closer, her blue eyes scanning my face with intense scrutiny. "Ryan told me he came back early from his trip to surprise you. Isn't he wonderful?"
"He's incredible," I agreed, my tone dripping with false sincerity. "He's making me breakfast right now."
"You need to eat," Claire insisted, reaching out to pat my arm. Her hand was warm, manicured, and terrifying. "In fact, I'm making a fresh pot of vegetable stew tonight. I'll bring a bowl down for both of you around seven."
"That sounds wonderful, Claire," I said. "Thank you for taking such good care of us."
I walked past her into my apartment, locking the deadbolt behind me.
Ryan was sitting at the kitchen island, an open laptop before him, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He looked up as I entered, his eyes narrowing slightly before his expression smoothed into his usual charismatic grin.
"Hey, baby," he said, closing the laptop lid halfway. "Where were you? I was getting worried."
"Just at the pharmacy on Clark Street," I lied, setting a small paper pharmacy bag on the counter. "I picked up some stomach coating suspension."
"Good," Ryan said, standing up and wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. He pressed his face into the side of my neck, his lips cold against my skin. "I hate seeing you suffer like this, Em. You know I'd do anything to make you better."
"I know," I murmured, staring at his reflected face in the dark television screen across the room. "Ryan?"
"Hmm?"
"What happened to Luke's estate payout?" I asked casually, keeping my tone curious and innocent. "Claire mentioned something yesterday about the probate court finalizing the paperwork."
I felt his body stiffen against mine for a fraction of a second before he relaxed.
"Oh, that," Ryan said, stepping back and taking a sip of his coffee. "It's complicated. Luke's business debts were larger than we thought. Most of the insurance money is tied up in escrow until the bank finishes auditing his commercial real estate holdings."
"That's terrible," I said, shaking my head sympathetically. "Claire must be so stressed."
"She is," Ryan agreed, watching me closely. "That's why I've been helping her manage the legal filings. In fact, I have to go upstairs for an hour to help her sign some tax documents before my afternoon conference call with D.C."
"Go ahead," I smiled warmly. "I'm going to take a long bath and rest."
The moment Ryan left the apartment and his footsteps faded up the stairwell toward Claire's floor, I walked straight to his home office.
I opened his half-closed laptop.
He had forgotten to lock the screen.
Open on his desktop were three tabs: an encrypted cloud storage server, an online bank portal for an offshore account in the Cayman Islands, and an insurance portal for North American Life & Casualty.
I clicked on the insurance tab.
There sat my policy—Policy #884-902-E.
Primary Beneficiary: Ryan Mercer.
Secondary Beneficiary: Claire Mercer.
The total payout upon accidental death or acute organ failure: $3.5 million.
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And attached to the file was an electronic signature document uploaded four days ago—a forged authorization letter bearing my signature, waiving the requirement for a secondary medical examination.
They weren't just planning to murder me. They had already filed the pre-authorization paperwork to collect the money the moment my liver failed.
