Chapter 15 - The Sociopath's Monologue
Evan kept the suppressed pistol aimed directly at my heart as he unlatched the heavy leather briefcase with his free hand.
He flipped through the notarized banking documents, his eyes gleaming with absolute, unadulterated greed.
"You made the right choice, Claire. Now sign the bottom line so I can finally leave," Evan commanded.
I picked up the expensive silver pen on the table, but I did not sign the documents immediately.
"Why did you do it, Evan? We had a beautiful life, we had a baby on the way," I asked him, desperately needing to hear the truth from his own mouth.
Evan rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by my emotional demand for closure.
"Our life was entirely mediocre, Claire. I was destined to be a billionaire tech titan, not a suburban father," he sneered.
He arrogantly paced the length of the boardroom, unable to resist the absolute thrill of gloating about his genius.
He explicitly explained how he had manipulated my greedy mother into committing the real estate fraud to fund his initial startup.
He bragged about discovering Emily's assassination plot and paying off her mechanic double to fake the fatal crash.
"I sat in a luxury hotel in Paris and watched the news reports of you crying at my empty casket," Evan laughed cruelly.
"I watched you sell our living room furniture to buy formula, and I did not feel a single ounce of pity," he added.
His words felt like physical knives stabbing repeatedly into my chest, but I kept my face perfectly stoic and calm.
"You are entirely soulless," Grandma Margaret observed quietly.
"I am a winner, Margaret," Evan corrected her aggressively.
He slammed his hand on the table and pointed the gun directly at my face.
"Sign the damn papers right now, or I will put a bullet in your head and forge your signature," Evan ordered.
I looked down at the documents, picked up the silver pen, and slowly signed a completely fake, unrecognizable name on the dotted line.
I slid the paper back across the table to him with a completely unbothered, dangerous smile.
"What is this garbage?" Evan yelled, looking at the invalid signature.
"That is a confession, Evan," I told him, unbuttoning the top of my tailored coat.
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I reached inside my collar and pulled out a tiny, high-definition federal wiretap microphone taped to my collarbone.
Evan's face completely drained of all color as he realized he had just explicitly confessed to fraud and faking his death on a live federal broadcast.
