Chapter 8
The next two months were the hardest of our lives.
Natalie and Marcus declared all-out war.
They filed a civil suit against the Westbrook estate, claiming forty billion dollars in damages for the “wrongful death” of Frank’s alleged partner.
Forty billion.
A number so absurd it would have been funny if it hadn’t been so destructive.
The stock price of our company dropped twenty-two percent in a single day.
Longtime employees called, concerned.
Clients threatened to leave.
Arthur worked eighteen hours a day.
He brought in a team of private investigators.
They dug into Marcus Webb’s past.
And what they found was worse than anything we had imagined.
Marcus Webb wasn’t just a con artist.
He was a violent one.
His real name was Marcus Lee Carter.
He was Natalie’s older brother.
Not her husband.
Her brother.
The marriage license in Nevada?
Fake.
Purchased online for fifty dollars.
The DNA test showing he was the father of Natalie’s baby?
Real.
Because the baby was a product of incest.
I felt physically sick when Arthur told us.
“They’ve been working together for ten years,” he said, laying the files on the table. “They’ve done this at least six times before. Natalie meets a wealthy man. Gains his trust. Gets engaged. Marcus plays various roles—business partner, caterer, private investigator. They drain the mark’s accounts. Then they disappear. The other men… they didn’t fare as well as Jackson, Mrs. Westbrook.”
He pushed three photographs across the table.
Three men.
All wealthy.
All engaged to Natalie at one point.
All dead.
“Richard Voss—the first husband—died in a car crash six months after the divorce. Brake lines were cut. Case was never solved. Henry White, the software billionaire from Seattle, ‘committed suicide’ two weeks before he was supposed to marry Natalie. Left her everything in a will she had ‘helped’ him write. David Chen, the real estate developer from Miami, disappeared on a sailing trip. Body never found. Natalie collected on the life insurance.”
Jackson was white.
“They would have killed me,” he said. “After the wedding. After the money transferred. They would have made it look like an accident. Or suicide. And Natalie would have gotten everything.”
“Almost certainly,” Arthur said. “The pattern is identical. Six to eight months after the wedding, the husband dies. Natalie collects. She and Marcus move to the next city. The next mark. You were the biggest score by far. Twelve times larger than any of the others. They were going to retire after you.”
I looked at the photographs.
Three men.
Three families destroyed.
And we had been next.
“This changes everything,” I said. “We don’t just have a fraud case. We have a serial murder investigation.”
“The FBI is already on it,” Arthur said. “But it’s complicated. The evidence is circumstantial. Natalie and Marcus are very careful. They never leave fingerprints. They never use their real names. They cover their tracks meticulously. We need something more. Something that ties them directly to the deaths.”
Judith, who had been quiet, spoke up.
“The tapes,” she said.
We all looked at her.
“Maria the housekeeper brought tapes,” she said. “Cassette tapes. We listened to the ones from the last few months. But there were dozens more. Old ones. Going back years. What if—”
She didn’t finish.
We didn’t need her to.
Jackson stood.
“Get them,” he said.
We spent the next three days going through every tape.
Listening to hours and hours of Natalie and Marcus’s conversations.
Most of it was garbage.
Plans for small cons.
Arguments about money.
Natalie complaining about the men she had to sleep with.
Then, on the third night, Jackson found it.
A tape dated seven years earlier.
He put it in the player.
Natalie’s voice, younger, colder.
*“White is getting suspicious,”* she said. “He asked me why I needed power of attorney over all his accounts. He’s not as stupid as we thought.”
Marcus’s voice.
*“Then we move up the timeline. No more waiting. The will is signed. The insurance is in place. We do it Friday.”*
*“How?”*
*“The usual. Pills in his scotch. He’s already depressed. Everyone will buy it. You write the note. I’ll clean up the scene. We’ll be in Mexico by Monday.”*
*“And the company?”*
*“We sell it off in pieces. Take the cash. Next target is in Miami. Richer. Dumber. Perfect.”*
The tape ended.
Jackson looked at us.
His hand was shaking.
“That’s Henry White,” he said. “The one who ‘committed suicide.’ They talked about it like they were planning a grocery run.”
“There’s more,” Arthur said. He had been listening in the corner. “That’s not just evidence of murder. That’s a confession. Recorded in their own voices. The FBI can use this. They can get warrants. Search their properties. Talk to the old witnesses. This is the break we needed.”
He was already on the phone with the lead agent.
Things moved quickly after that.
The FBI raided Natalie and Marcus’s house the next morning.
They found more tapes.
More documents.
Weapons.
Poison.
Sedatives.
Enough evidence to build cases on all six deaths.
Natalie and Marcus were arrested at a small airport in Nevada, trying to board a private plane to Costa Rica.
They had fake passports.
They had cash.
They had every intention of disappearing forever.
This time, there was no bail.
No sympathetic judge.
No maternity dress and crocodile tears.
They were held without bond, in separate facilities, facing six counts of murder, multiple counts of fraud, conspiracy, racketeering, and enough other charges to keep them in prison for several lifetimes.
The press conference that afternoon was surreal.
The FBI director stood at the podium.
Behind him were blown-up photographs of Natalie and Marcus.
Of their victims.
Of the evidence.
*“For the last decade,”* the director said, “Natalie Carter and Marcus Carter have operated one of the most sophisticated and deadly criminal enterprises this country has ever seen. Using a combination of seduction, psychological manipulation, and ultimately murder, they targeted wealthy, vulnerable men, drained their estates, and disposed of them when they were no longer useful. Today, their reign of terror ends.”
He went on.
He detailed the crimes.
He mentioned Jackson by name.
He called him lucky.
The luckiest of all their targets.
Because he was the only one who had survived.
When it was over, the reporters turned to us.
Shouted questions.
Jackson held up his hand.
The room went quiet.
“I don’t have much to say,” he said. “I’m grateful to the FBI. To Arthur. To Maria the housekeeper, who had the courage to come forward. And most of all, to my mother. Who loved me even when I didn’t deserve it. Who fought for me when I was too blind to fight for myself. And who reminded me every single day that we are Westbrooks. And Westbrooks don’t break.”
He took my hand.
“No more questions,” he said.
We walked away.
The cameras flashed.
But for the first time in months, I didn’t care.
May you like
It was over.
Or so I thought.
