Chapter 3 - The Shredded Alibi
Sarah stared at me like she had just seen a ghost crawled straight out of the East River. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps, and her fingers clawed frantically at the strap of her leather handbag.
“Mr... Mr. Mercer,” she stammered, her voice shaking so hard the syllables fractured. “I—I was just cleaning out Mr. Julian’s secondary desk. He told me to shred these files before end of business—”
“Pick them up, Sarah,” I said softly, walking toward her with deliberate, unhurried steps.
She backed away until her spine hit the concrete pillar behind her, her eyes wide with animalistic panic. “I didn't know! I swear to God, I didn't know what was in those binders! Julian said it was just standard tax restructuring for the Brooklyn docks!”
I stopped two feet away from her, towering over her trembling frame. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. Fear was a language Sarah had learned fluently the day she signed her employment contract with the Mercer organization.
“If it was standard tax paperwork, Sarah, you wouldn't be sneaking out the service stairs with a box of shredded cross-cut strips at eleven o’clock at night,” I said, glancing down at the scattered paper fragments on the floor. I crouched down, picked up a single rectangular strip, and squinted at the typed text visible across the edge: ...account transfer authorization... Elena Ross... medical withholding trust...
My jaw tightened until my teeth ached. It wasn't just tax paperwork. It was a systematic financial strangulation of my ex-wife, authorized under a forged signature bearing my own initials.
“Where is he, Sarah?” I asked, looking up into her terrified eyes.
“Penthouse,” she choked out, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “He’s meeting with... with someone from the Syndicate. They’re transferring the last of the offshore accounts tonight before the federal audit hits.”
“Who?”
“I don't know his name! Just that he calls himself ‘The Broker.’” She grabbed my sleeve with desperate, clawing fingers. “Mr. Mercer, please—don't tell Julian I talked to you. He’ll kill me. He said anyone who crosses him ends up like the girl—”
She stopped abruptly, clamping her hand over her mouth as if she had just let slip a secret meant for the grave.
My grip on her wrist tightened just enough to make her wince. “Ends up like what girl, Sarah? Speak.”
“The girl who lived in the apartment below Elena,” she sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut. “Two months ago, she saw Julian’s men carrying medical supplies out of Elena’s building. She threatened to call the cops. Julian... Julian had her taken care of. They made it look like an accidental overdose in the alley behind 82nd Street.”
A cold, lethal fury surged through my veins—pure, unadulterated violence that burned hotter than any anger I had ever felt in my life. Julian hadn't just starved Elena; he had murdered an innocent bystander to keep her silence, all while hiding behind the shield of our family name.
“Get out of here, Sarah,” I whispered, standing up and letting go of her arm. “If you’re still in the city by sunrise, I won't be able to protect you from what I do to my brother.”
She didn't need to be told twice. She snatched up her handbag and bolted down the ramp toward the exit, her heels clacking wildly against the concrete until the heavy security doors banged shut behind her.
I turned back to the private elevator, pressed the call button with a thumb that didn't shake, and waited for the doors to slide open.
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When they did, the polished brass interior reflected a man I barely recognized—cold, hollow, and ready to tear down his own bloodline to protect what was left of his soul.
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