Chapter 4 - THE GASLAMP LAMP
At 5:00 PM, I went down to the kitchen wearing a dark green silk dress and a full face of makeup to cover the pallor of my skin.
Eleanor was sitting at the island, chopping herbs for a roast. She looked up as I walked in, her grey eyes scanning my face with practiced, predatory scrutiny.
“You’re going out?” she asked, setting her knife down. “You look pale, Nora. You really should lie down.”
“I’m feeling much better, Eleanor,” I said, offering a serene, brilliant smile that I felt clear down to my knuckles. “It’s Marcus’s big night. We wouldn't miss it for the world.”
Julian came down the stairs, tying his leather shoes. He looked handsome, refined, and entirely normal. He walked over, kissed Eleanor on the cheek, and put his arm around my waist.
“Ready, honey?” he asked.
I looked into his dark brown eyes. I searched for a tremor, a twitch, a flicker of guilt. But his face was an open book of easygoing affection. Either my husband was the greatest actor in the history of human deception, or he was a complete, useful idiot being manipulated by his mother and brother.
“Chloe is staying with the babysitter,” I told Eleanor. “We’ll be home by eleven.”
“Don't drink any alcohol tonight, Nora,” Eleanor said, her voice dropping into that sweet, poisonous, maternal tone. “Your liver markers, you know. You need to protect your liver.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” I said, turning toward the door.
Marcus lived in a high-rise loft in the Gaslamp Quarter—a building where units started at two million dollars. For a man who claimed to be living off credit cards, his apartment was outfitted with Italian leather furniture, six-foot abstract paintings, and a floor-to-ceiling wine cellar.
When we arrived, Marcus opened the door holding a crystal glass of scotch. He was thirty-two, handsome in a slick, oily way, wearing a tailored linen suit that cost more than my gallery’s monthly utility bill.
“Julian! Nora!” Marcus boomed, wrapping Julian in a tight bear hug. He turned to me, offering a wide, white-toothed smile that didn't reach his dark eyes. “Nora, my beautiful sister-in-law! Look at you! You look... well, hanging in there!”
“I’m hanging in, Marcus,” I said, stepping past him into the foyer.
I had slipped a micro-voice recorder—a professional dictaphone used by legal investigators—into the lining of my leather clutch bag. The microphone was sensitive enough to pick up whispers from fifteen feet away.
A fourth person was sitting on the leather sofa in the living room.
He was a man in his late fifties, wearing a charcoal grey suit, with silver hair brushed sleekly back and gold-rimmed reading glasses resting on his nose.
“Nora, Julian,” Marcus announced, waving his scotch glass toward the man. “I want you to meet my lead legal consultant and funding partner. David Vance.”
My pulse spiked, hammering against my temples like a war drum.
I forced my feet to move forward across the polished concrete floor.
David Vance stood up, adjusting his suit jacket, and extended a manicured hand toward me.
“Mrs. Vance,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and terrifyingly calm. “It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you in person. Marcus has told me so much about your... extensive art portfolio.”
I took his hand. His grip was cold and dry.
“It’s Mrs. Mercer,” I corrected him, using my maiden name, which I had kept legally and professionally. “Nora Mercer.”
Vance’s eyes flickered behind his gold-rimmed glasses—a microscopic flash of cold calculation.
“Of course,” Vance smiled softly. “My apologies. Nora Mercer.”
He turned to Julian, shaking his hand with familiar warmth. “Julian, good to see you again. The commercial deeds for the Waterfront project are almost ready for your signature.”
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Julian grinned, slapping Vance on the shoulder. “David, I can't thank you enough for guiding Marcus through this. My brother’s been trying to get this land deal off the ground for three years.”
“Well,” Vance said, glancing at me with a slow, deliberate smile. “Sometimes these things just require... the right timing. And the right liquidity.”
