Chapter 3 - The Will Under GlassClaire found the rope in the service corridor.

The evidence bag had been opened.

Nothing appeared missing.

That was worse.

Someone wanted her to know they could reach it.

She sealed the rope inside a second bag, signed across the tape, photographed it, and locked it in the lodge manager’s safe.

Then she called the Summit County Sheriff’s Office.

By morning, the expedition had become an official incident investigation.

Ethan hated that.

“This is ridiculous.”

Detective Laura Medina sat across from him in the lodge conference room.

“Mr. Blake, a rope failure almost killed you.”

“Equipment fails.”

“According to your guide, this equipment may have been deliberately compromised.”

Ethan’s eyes moved toward Claire.

She did not apologize.

Medina continued.

“We’re not accusing anyone. We’re preserving evidence.”

Nia sat beside Ethan.

Marcus leaned against the far wall.

“Who had access?” Medina asked.

Claire answered.

“Everyone in the climbing party had access to the staging gear at different points.”

Marcus folded his arms.

“So you’re saying any of us could have done it.”

“I’m saying the rope needs testing.”

Nia looked at Ethan.

“We should leave.”

Medina closed her notebook.

“You can.”

Outside, Ethan exploded.

“You called the police?”

Claire faced him.

“Yes.”

“Without talking to me?”

“If somebody cut your rope, this stopped being only your decision.”

“If somebody cut it.”

“I’ve spent almost two decades inspecting failed climbing systems.”

“And you’re never wrong?”

“I hope I’m wrong.”

Ethan stared at her.

Claire lowered her voice.

“But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see what I saw because your family is uncomfortable.”

That word landed.

Family.

Ten months earlier, Victor Blake had died of pancreatic cancer at seventy-two.

The funeral had filled a cathedral in Denver.

Politicians came.

Executives came.

Three former governors came.

Victor Blake had built Blake Meridian Holdings from a regional construction company into a sprawling private conglomerate with interests in real estate, logistics, energy infrastructure and hospitality.

The business press estimated the family fortune at approximately $180 million.

Ethan had never liked that number.

It made people stop seeing people.

They saw percentages.

Assets.

Control.

The week after the funeral, Ethan and Nia sat in the forty-third-floor office of family attorney Helen Ward.

Helen placed Victor’s trust amendment on the table.

“Your father divided economic ownership evenly.”

Nia had relaxed.

Then Helen continued.

“But voting control is not equal.”

Ethan remembered Nia’s expression.

Helen explained.

Ethan received sixty percent of voting interests.

Nia received forty.

The distribution was designed, according to Victor, to avoid deadlock.

Nia had laughed once.

A bitter sound.

“Of course.”

Ethan turned toward her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means even dead, he still trusts you more.”

“That’s not what she said.”

“It’s exactly what she said.”

Helen raised a hand.

“There is another provision.”

If Ethan died without a spouse or descendants, his controlling shares transferred first to the sibling survivorship trust.

To Nia.

Ethan had thought nothing of it.

Nia had thought of little else.

Now, sitting beside the lodge fireplace, Ethan remembered the clause with disturbing clarity.

Marcus walked in.

“You’re staring into space.”

Ethan looked at him.

“How long have you worked with Nia?”

Marcus hesitated.

“Worked with?”

“You used to run acquisitions for Blake Meridian.”

“Until your father and I disagreed.”

“That was three years ago.”

“Yes.”

“So why are you here?”

Marcus smiled.

“Nia invited me.”

“As what?”

“A friend.”

Ethan watched him leave.

Later, he found Nia alone on the terrace.

Snow collected on the railing.

“Do you remember Dad’s survivorship clause?”

She looked at him carefully.

“Why?”

“If I die, my voting shares go to you.”

Nia’s breath clouded between them.

“Ethan.”

“I’m asking if you remember.”

“Of course I remember.”

Neither moved.

Finally she said, “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No.”

“But you thought it.”

“I almost died yesterday.”

“And suddenly everyone who benefits becomes a murderer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You never say things.”

The same accusation again.

Nia turned away.

Ethan watched her.

Behind the glass doors, Marcus appeared at the end of the hallway.

He saw them talking.

Stopped.

Then disappeared.

Ethan felt something cold that had nothing to do with the snow.

He walked inside and called Helen Ward.

She answered on the third ring.

“Helen, I need you to pull Dad’s trust.”

A pause.

“Why?”

“Specifically the survivorship provisions.”

Another pause.

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Longer this time.

“Ethan,” Helen said carefully, “there’s something about those provisions you were never told.”