I bought an antique mirror at a Newport flea market, but my reflection stopped moving and wrote "Save me" in blood—uncovering my cousin's $18M old-money crime.
👉 Previous Decision: You chose Option A – Take a hammer and smash the mirror frame immediately.
The emergency injunction notice from Julian’s lawyers lay crumpled on my workbench. The chilling cold of the glass, the silent accusation of the reflection, it was all too much. I needed it gone.
My hand found the heavy ball-peen hammer I used for careful frame disassembly. I gripped it tight.
A single, desperate swing. The glass exploded inwards, a spiderweb of cracks blooming across the surface before collapsing into a shower of dangerous shards.
The impact split the thick mahogany backing. A hollow compartment, long hidden, was revealed inside. A yellowed velvet pouch, secured with a thin leather cord, lay within.
But as I reached for it, a fresh, viscous drip of dark red liquid oozed from the shattered edge of the frame. It wasn’t the reflection’s blood this time. It seemed to come from deeper within the wood.
Before I could process it, before I could even touch the pouch, the studio door burst open. Two burly men in dark uniforms, Montclair Security embroidered on their jackets, surged inside.
“Ms. Devine, under emergency estate seizure warrant,” one of them barked. “All property pertaining to the Montclair Estate is to be confiscated.”
My hammer clattered to the floor. They moved with practiced efficiency, sweeping up the shattered glass, the broken frame, and the small velvet pouch. I watched, helpless, as my chance to understand vanished into their evidence bags.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 4 to continue the story
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