Part 2: The Art of Illusion
The dry click of the doorknob echoed in the silent space. I immediately relaxed my entire body, slumping my head onto the desk, one arm hanging limply, my eyes half-closed, revealing just enough space to see through my eyelashes.
Julian and Chloe entered. Julian approached, roughly grabbed my shoulder, and shook me violently. I tilted my head to one side, my mouth slightly agape, breathing long, heavy breaths—a heart rate control technique I’d learned from my days working with undercover agents.
“Look,” Chloe sneered, her raven-bead-painted finger tracing the rim of the empty cocoa glass. “I told you. No matter how clever this old man is, he’s just a rotting skeleton.”
“Get the file out,” said Julian, his voice trembling with both fear and excitement. “The notary will be here at midnight. We just need to put his fingerprint on the comprehensive trust agreement, then drag him down the stairs.”
They quickly left to go down to the living room to prepare for their midnight guest, not forgetting to lock the door from the outside.
The clock struck 11:47 PM. I had exactly 13 minutes left.
I sprang up, the weariness gone, replaced by the coldness of a hunter. The safe’s wire cut? Do you want to know? It doesn’t matter. They forgot one thing: I’m a federal government investigative auditor. If there’s no problem with the product, the product cannot be used.
I opened the secret drawer under the desk and took out a specialized recording pen—a device I’d been using since I started profiling criminal gangs. It had been running since Chloe walked into the room with her cocoa. Every confession, every murder plot they’d made was stored on that tiny memory card.
There’s no way it’ll work correctly. I need a fatal blow right in front of the witness. I looked at the bottle of poisoned cocoa on the table, then at the portrait of my late wife hanging on the wall. A crazy but perfect plan formed in my head.
I smeared some of the poisoned cocoa on my wedding ring, then sat back down, motionless, waiting for the prey to fall into the trap.
Part 3: Falling into the Trap
Exactly 12:00 AM. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened. Julian and Chloe entered with a middle-aged man in a smart suit, carrying a briefcase—Mr. Miller, a renowned but notoriously rigid and greedy notary, whom they had bribed.
“Mr. Miller, as you can see,” Julian said sorrowfully, pointing at me. “My father has been completely unconscious since tonight. The doctor says he’s no longer capable of managing his property. We need to finalize the transfer immediately to pay the hospital bills.”
Mr. Miller adjusted his glasses, looked at me suspiciously, but then a nod and the wad of cash Chloe had secretly slipped into his jacket pocket blinded him. He opened the document, pressed my thumb into the red ink pad, and prepared to press it down onto the fateful agreement.
Just as my finger was a millimeter from the paper, my eyes snapped open. I gripped Julian’s wrist so tightly that his bones creaked.
“Well done, son,” I smiled, my voice clear and sharp, showing no sign of being drugged.
All three of them recoiled as if they’d seen a zombie. Chloe’s face was deathly pale as she stammered, “No… no way! He drank…”
“Drank this Sedative-X-mixed cocoa?” I calmly pulled a voice recorder from my pocket and pressed Play.
“He drank it all… By this time tomorrow, your dear father won’t remember his own name… Make sure the basement stairs are cleared. A tragic fall tomorrow morning will seal it all.”
Chloe’s sharp voice echoed through the dark room. Mr. Miller’s expression shifted from horror to panic. He immediately retrieved the papers: “Mr. and Mrs. Vance! You told me to come here to witness an elderly person voluntarily signing, not a murder!”
“Miller! You’ve already taken our money!” Julian roared, his animalistic nature evident. He lunged at me, trying to snatch the recording pen.
But he underestimated someone who had dealt with money laundering gangs before. I dodged, tripping him and sending him tumbling onto the desk, knocking over the vial containing the poisoned cocoa sample.
“Don’t move, Julian,” I said coldly, pointing to the smartwatch on my wrist—a device with an independent battery that they’d forgotten to disable. “This house’s security system is directly connected to the Connecticut State Police via satellite. When you cut the safe’s wiring at 11:40, a silent alarm was triggered.”
As if to illustrate my point, from the distance at the foot of the hill, the sirens of police cars began to blare, tearing through the night, their flashing red and blue lights reflecting through the office windows.
Chloe collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Julian looked at me with bloodshot eyes, filled with hatred and helplessness.
I stood up, adjusted my suit collar, and looked at my only son with utter contempt:
“I’ve spent my life auditing the greedy, Julian. And your biggest mistake was thinking that age had worn down the claws of a wolf.”
