Chapter 3 - The Funeral of Two Living Souls: Watching Them Celebrate Our Deaths
Three days later, the rain over Richmond was relentless.
From the second-story loft of an empty warehouse overlooking the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, I adjusted the high-powered spotting scope. The vantage point gave me a direct view of the black-clad mourners entering the memorial service for Valerie and Mason Vance.
The local news outlets had declared it a catastrophic tragedy: “Historic Shipyard Heiress and Paralyzed Philanthropist Brother Lost in Tragic River Plunge; Search Teams Continue Recovery Efforts.” Julian had played his part with Emmy-worthy perfection. He had given a weeping press conference by the riverbank, his face pale, his voice breaking as he spoke of his "unbearable grief" and how he had tried desperately to smash the vehicle's windows with his bare hands until his knuckles bled.
Through the crosshairs of the lens, I watched the grieving widower step out of a black town car.
Julian wore a bespoke Italian suit. His head was bowed, a handkerchief pressed to his face. Beside him, dressed in a discreet black mourning veil, was Chloe. She walked with one hand resting delicately over her stomach, playing the role of the devastated, fragile surviving sister.
“Look at him,” I murmured, my knuckles whitening against the edge of the tripod. “He even put on the cufflinks I gave him for our second anniversary.”
Mason sat at a folding table behind me, three high-resolution monitors illuminating his face. Lines of code, banking transfers, and offshore transaction trails scrolled past at dizzying speeds.
“He’s wearing them because they have the Vance family crest,” Mason said without looking up from his keyboard. “Julian needs every board member, every creditor, and every maritime regulator to see him as the spiritual and legal successor to our name. He’s putting on a show for the five majority shareholders attending today.”
Through the scope, I watched Julian greet Senator Hayes and Dr. Albright at the church steps. The three men exchanged brief, solemn handshakes. But as Dr. Albright leaned in under Julian’s umbrella, Julian didn't look devastated. He tapped Albright’s shoulder twice—a discreet, pre-arranged signal—and a tight, triumphant smirk flickered across his lips before he resumed his sorrowful expression for the flashing cameras.
“Mason,” I called out. “Dr. Albright just handed Julian an envelope.”
Mason pressed a key, and our directional parabolic microphone feed cut through the static on the speakers. The audio picked up the faint, filtered conversation near the cathedral doors.
“The preliminary death declarations have been expedited through the county coroner’s office,” Albright’s voice came through with crystal clarity. “Since the vehicle was recovered with severe cabin breach and personal effects, the presumption of death certificates will be signed by Friday morning. The probate judge is already handled.”
“And the shipyard trust?” Julian’s low, velvety voice replied.
“Chloe signs the consolidation documents at the estate reception immediately following this service,” Chloe’s soft voice chimed in, free of any sorrow. “Julian, darling, the Sterling board meeting is scheduled for tomorrow at nine. By noon, Vance Shipyard will officially cease to exist. It will be Sterling Maritime Logistics.”
“Good,” Julian whispered. “Let’s get through this hypocritical mass. I can’t stand smelling her cheap funeral lilies any longer.”
The feed clicked off.
I stepped back from the scope, my chest heaving. “He called my mother’s favorite lilies cheap.”
“He called our entire family an obstacle,” Mason said, turning the monitor toward me. “Look at this. Julian didn't wait for the certificates. He already initiated a wire transfer of forty-two million dollars from the Vance Shipyard infrastructure maintenance reserve into a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands called Nautilus Global Holdings.”
“That money was meant to overhaul the dry docks,” I said, horrified. “If that money leaves the operational account, four hundred shipyard workers lose their pensions and health insurance by Monday.”
“He’s gutting the company before the public even realizes it’s been sold,” Mason explained. “He’s taking the cash, leaving the debt with Chloe as the sole titular owner, and transferring the physical real estate to his father’s conglomerate for pennies on the dollar. He’s going to abandon Chloe the second the ink dries.”
“She thinks he loves her,” I said with a cold laugh. “She thinks that baby is her golden ticket.”
“Chloe is a greedy fool who sold her own family for a designer lifestyle,” Mason said, standing up and throwing a set of encrypted flash drives into a leather satchel. “The memorial service is going to last another forty-five minutes. That gives us exactly forty minutes inside Vance Manor while the staff and security are all here at the church.”
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I looked at my brother, seeing the iron determination in his eyes. “What are we getting?”
“The original 1954 maritime charter,” Mason said. “And Dad’s real will. The one Julian thinks he burned five years ago.”
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