Chapter 8 - The McLean MansionA week later, a moving truck pulled up into the circular driveway of the grand brick mansion in McLean where Michael and I had lived for five years.
I sat in the passenger seat of Detective Vance’s unmarked cruiser, watching through the tinted window as federal marshals and local deputies cleared the property.
Michael was gone, locked away in a county cell awaiting trial. Chloe Sterling had packed her bags and fled her apartment two days earlier, disgraced and abandoned by both her lover and her firm.
The house looked different now. The cold, sterile, ostentatious perfection that Michael had insisted upon suddenly felt hollow and lifeless.
“Do you want me to come inside with you?” Detective Vance asked gently, turning the car engine off.
“No, thank you, Marcus,” I said, opening the car door and stepping out onto the pavement, leaning slightly on my carbon-fiber cane. “I need to do this alone.”
I walked up the stone steps, pulled a heavy brass key from my pocket, and unlocked the front door.
The interior was quiet. The marble foyer echoed softly with my footsteps.
I walked through the formal living room, past the expensive art pieces Michael had bought to impress his business associates, and headed straight up the grand staircase toward our master suite.
The walk-in closet still smelled faintly of his expensive cologne.
I opened his side of the closet. Rows of tailored designer suits, pristine silk shirts, and polished leather shoes hung in neat, obsessive rows.
I reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his favorite navy wool suit—the exact jacket he had worn on the mountain the day he tried to murder me.
Without hesitation, I pulled it off the hanger, walked over to the large leather storage bins by the door, and tossed it inside.
Then I did the same with every single item of clothing, every watch, every reminder of the man who had pretended to love me while plotting my murder.
When the closet was completely empty on his side, I walked over to the window, pushed it wide open, and let the crisp December wind sweep into the room, flushing out the stale, suffocating air of the past.
Downstairs in the nursery, which we had painted a soft, soothing lavender, a small digital monitor clicked softly.
I walked down the hall, opened the nursery door, and looked down into the crib.
Clara was awake, her bright, intelligent eyes blinking sleepily as she stared up at the mobile hanging above her. When she heard me approach, she let out a tiny, contented coo and kicked her little legs.
May you like
I reached down, scooped her up gently into my arms, and pressed her warm, soft body against my chest.
“We’re home, sweetheart,” I whispered, kissing her forehead. “And no one will ever hurt us again.”
