Chapter 6 - The Shadows of the Past
Gabriel didn't look threatened. He reached into his flannel shirt pocket, pulled out a stack of printed, high-resolution photographs, and tossed them onto the glass coffee table between them.
The glossy photos scattered across the glass surface.
Beverly looked down first. The moment her eyes hit the top photo—a certified copy of the Cleveland coroner's toxicology report for Arthur Vance—her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the sofa cushion behind her.
"What... what is this?" Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling violently as she picked up a photo of her own signed marriage license to Arthur Vance, paired with a wire transfer record moving $400,000 into an offshore account in the Bahamas.
"It's the 'WIDOWS' folder, Candice," Gabriel said smoothly, watching as Candice’s entire world crumbled before her eyes. "I found it in your nightstand. Right beside Clara's silver cup, and the pawnshop receipts for her wedding ring, her pearl necklace, and Lucas's college fund."
Candice stared at the photos on the table as if they were venomous snakes. "You... you went through my private drawers?"
"I took photos of every single document," Gabriel revealed, his tone sharp as a razor. "Arthur Vance in Cleveland. Marcus Thorne in Indianapolis. And me in Columbus. A neat, lucrative little family business, isn't it? Beverly finds the grieving widowers through her hospice work, Candice moves in to marry them, Evelyn handles the offshore asset transfers, and you systematically abuse and isolate their children until they run away or break down."
"You can't prove a damn thing!" Candice shrieked, her voice cracking into a desperate, high-pitched scream. "Those are old papers! Arthur Vance died of a heart attack! It was natural causes!"
"Then why did you have his daughter's sealed medical records in your nightstand?" Gabriel asked coldly. "Why did you have forged power-of-attorney documents with my forged signature sitting in your desk drawer, ready to be executed during my next long haul to Phoenix?"
Candice stood frozen, her chest heaving heavily, sweat breaking out along her hairline, ruining her expensive Miami tan.
"You're a long-haul trucker, Gabriel!" Candice sneered, making one final, pathetic attempt to reclaim control. "You're nobody! You have no power, no money, and no high-priced lawyers! Who do you think the courts are going to believe? A respectable woman and her family, or a grease-monkey driver who abandoned his son for weeks at a time?!"
"They aren't going to have to choose who to believe, Candice," Gabriel said softly.
He lifted his hand and pressed a small button on his smartwatch.
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Outside the house, the quiet Sunday afternoon exploded into a chorus of screaming police sirens. Red and blue lights flashed wildly through the living room blinds, painting the walls in pulsing shades of crimson and cobalt.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden front porch steps.
