Chapter 4 - The Hitman
I stared at Rachel's text message in complete and utter confusion.
Julian was flying to the Cayman Islands on the exact same flight as my best friend.
This meant the secret apartment downtown was completely empty and vulnerable.
"I have a two-hour window before Julian lands and realizes I am not on that plane," I told David.
I left the penthouse and drove directly to the upscale high-rise building where Julian kept his hidden life.
I slipped past the distracted concierge and rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor.
I used a bump key I had purchased online months ago to quietly unlock Julian's front door.
The apartment was meticulously clean, decorated in expensive modern furniture I had absolutely never seen.
I walked straight into the home office and found his primary desktop computer resting on a glass desk.
The computer was password protected, but Julian was incredibly arrogant and predictable.
I typed in our original wedding anniversary, and the screen instantly unlocked.
I plugged a high-capacity encrypted flash drive into the USB port and began copying his entire hard drive.
While the files transferred, I opened a hidden folder labeled "Life Insurance."
I expected to find a massive policy taken out on my life.
Instead, I found scanned documents detailing a massive ten-million-dollar payout Julian had already collected.
The payout was from the death of his first wife, who supposedly died in a tragic car accident five years ago.
Julian had sworn to me that he had never been married before we met.
My husband was a serial black widow, and I was scheduled to be his next tragic accident.
The file transfer finally completed, and I securely ejected the flash drive.
Suddenly, I heard the distinct, heavy sound of a key sliding into the front door lock.
Julian had not boarded the flight to the Cayman Islands.
Rachel had lied to me.
I frantically looked around the office for a place to hide.
I squeezed myself into the small gap between a massive bookshelf and the heavy velvet curtains.
The front door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.
It was not Julian who walked into the home office.
It was a tall, heavily muscular man wearing black leather gloves and a dark suit.
He pulled a suppressed pistol from his jacket and began searching the apartment room by room.
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He stopped directly in front of the bookshelf, pulling a photograph of me from his pocket.
"Make it look like a suicide, and make sure she is dead before you leave," the man muttered into a Bluetooth earpiece.
