Chapter 7 Bone Collection
# Chapter 7: Bone Collection
The funeral of Ernest Blackwood was a spectacle of wealth and influence befitting a man of his status. St. Andrew's Cathedral was filled to capacity with business associates, political connections, and society figures—most of whom, Nina noted with grim satisfaction, had witnessed Ernest's livestreamed meltdown just days before. They came not out of genuine grief but out of morbid curiosity and social obligation, their whispered conversations falling silent as Nina walked down the aisle to take her place beside the closed casket.
She had chosen her widow's attire carefully: a tailored black dress that was modest yet flattering, a delicate veil that partially obscured her face without hiding it completely, allowing observers to glimpse her carefully composed expression of dignified sorrow. Vanessa walked beside her, playing the role of the supportive sister-in-law with practiced precision.
From her position in the front pew, Nina surveyed the crowd during the eulogy delivered by Ernest's longtime business partner, noting who seemed genuinely affected and who was merely going through the motions. Detective Mercer sat near the back, his sharp eyes meeting hers briefly when she turned. He had made a remarkable recovery from his drugged confusion during their meeting, just as Nina had calculated he would. The mild hallucinogen had left his system quickly, leaving only a vague sense of disorientation that would make him doubt the reliability of his own perceptions without causing any lasting harm.
After the service, the select inner circle proceeded to the cemetery for the interment. Ernest's remains—what little the dogs had left—had been cremated, the official explanation being that the extensive damage to his body made traditional burial "unsuitable." The polished mahogany urn seemed absurdly small to contain a man who had taken up so much space in life with his domineering presence.
As Nina stepped forward to place a single white rose on the urn before it was sealed in the family mausoleum, she felt nothing—no grief, no guilt, not even the satisfaction she had expected. Just a hollow emptiness, as if she were performing in a play whose significance she no longer understood.
The reception afterward was held at the mansion, where black-clad servers circulated with champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres among the murmuring guests. Nina played her part flawlessly, accepting condolences with downcast eyes and quiet dignity, occasionally allowing her voice to catch when speaking of her "beloved husband."
"He was everything to me," she told the mayor's wife, who patted her hand sympathetically. "I still can't believe he's gone."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Part of Nina still couldn't believe that her elaborate revenge had succeeded, that Ernest was truly dead, that she had survived and was now free.
As the reception wound down and guests began to depart, Detective Mercer approached her in a quiet corner of the drawing room.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he said with a respectful nod. "My condolences again on your loss."
"Thank you, Detective," Nina replied softly. "I appreciate you coming today."
"It was quite a turnout," he observed, glancing around at the remaining guests. "Your husband was clearly an important man in this city."
"Ernest had connections everywhere," Nina agreed. "Though I sometimes wonder how many of these people actually knew him. Truly knew him."
Mercer's gaze sharpened at this comment. "And you, Mrs. Blackwood? Did you truly know him?"
Nina met his eyes directly. "I thought I did. But marriage often reveals sides of people that they keep hidden from the world."
Before Mercer could respond, Vanessa appeared at Nina's elbow. "Excuse me, but the catering manager needs to speak with you about packing up the remaining food," she said smoothly. "Detective, I'm sure we'll be seeing you again soon?"
It was a polite dismissal, and Mercer recognized it as such. "Yes, I expect so. Good day, ladies."
As he walked away, Vanessa murmured, "He's not giving up."
"I never expected him to," Nina replied. "That's what makes him useful."
Once the last guest had departed and the catering staff had cleared away the evidence of the reception, Nina retreated to her private study—a room that had been exclusively hers even during Ernest's life, as he had preferred his more imposing office downstairs for conducting business.
Vanessa joined her there, carrying a bottle of expensive cognac and two crystal glasses. "Well, sister dear, you've officially buried your husband. How does it feel to be a widow?"
Nina accepted the offered glass, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully. "Strangely anticlimactic. I expected to feel... I don't know. Something more."
"Revenge rarely provides the satisfaction we imagine," Vanessa observed, settling into an armchair. "But freedom—that has lasting value."
"Freedom," Nina repeated, testing the word. "Yes, I suppose that's what I have now."
They drank in companionable silence for a moment before Vanessa spoke again. "Have you decided what you'll do with the ashes?"
Nina smiled faintly. "As a matter of fact, I have."
Later that evening, after Vanessa had retired to her guest suite, Nina made her way to the kitchen carrying the ornate urn that contained Ernest's remains. The house was silent, the staff gone for the night. She placed the urn on the counter and regarded it thoughtfully.
Ernest had prided himself on controlling every aspect of his life and those around him. Even in death, he had left detailed instructions for his funeral arrangements, specifying everything from the music to be played to the exact text of his obituary. But he had never anticipated that his remains would end up in Nina's possession, subject to her whims rather than his careful planning.
She opened the urn and looked inside at the gray ashes that were all that remained of the man who had nearly killed her. There was a certain poetry to their reduction to this anonymous dust—no trace remained of his handsome features or his powerful physique, nothing to indicate that these ashes had once been a man who had inspired both fear and admiration.
From a cabinet, Nina retrieved a container of expensive black cocoa powder—imported from France, with an intensity of flavor that Ernest had particularly enjoyed in the chocolate desserts she would prepare for his business dinners. She emptied the container onto a baking sheet, then carefully mixed in a portion of Ernest's ashes, working them thoroughly into the dark powder until they were indistinguishable.
The symbolism wasn't lost on her—Ernest, who had consumed so many lives, would now be consumed himself.
Nina was an accomplished baker, having taken numerous courses at Ernest's insistence so she could impress his business associates with homemade delicacies. Now those skills would serve a different purpose.
She set about gathering ingredients for a rich chocolate cake, methodically measuring flour, sugar, eggs, and butter. She added the ash-infused cocoa powder last, stirring it into the glossy batter until it was fully incorporated. The kitchen filled with the warm, comforting aroma of chocolate as she poured the batter into an elegant bundt pan and placed it in the oven.
While the cake baked, Nina prepared a dark ganache for the topping, using more of the black cocoa to give it a dramatically deep color. The repetitive motion of stirring the melting chocolate was soothing, almost meditative, allowing her mind to wander back over the events that had led her to this moment.
Had Ernest known, in those final moments as the dogs attacked, that it was Nina who had orchestrated his downfall? Had he realized that she had outsmarted him at his own game? She hoped so. She hoped that knowledge had accompanied him into whatever darkness followed life.
The timer chimed, drawing her back to the present. She removed the cake from the oven and set it on a rack to cool, its rich aroma filling the kitchen. Perfect. She would let it cool overnight before applying the ganache and completing her creation.
Nina cleaned the kitchen meticulously, leaving no trace of her nocturnal baking project. She returned the urn, now half-empty, to its place of honor on the mantel in the formal living room. No one would ever know that Ernest Blackwood's final resting place would be divided between the family mausoleum and a macabre dessert.
The following morning, Nina rose early to finish her creation. She carefully turned the cooled cake onto a crystal cake stand—a wedding gift from Ernest's business partner—and draped it with the glossy ganache, watching as the dark chocolate cascaded down the sides in perfect rivulets. As a final touch, she piped elegant script across the top in silver icing: "Till Death Do Us Part."
When Vanessa entered the kitchen and saw the cake, she paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. "Is that what I think it is?"
Nina nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Ernest always did love my chocolate cake."
Vanessa approached, examining the creation with a mixture of horror and admiration. "You are full of surprises, Nina. But who exactly is going to eat a cake made with my brother's remains?"
"I have someone in mind," Nina replied cryptically. "Someone who deserves a taste of Ernest."
Later that afternoon, Nina received the visitor she had been expecting. Ernest's sister—his actual biological sister, not Vanessa, who had revealed herself to be Ernest's former lover who had assumed the identity of his estranged sister after the real Vanessa's mysterious disappearance years ago.
The woman who called herself Vanessa had explained everything to Nina after Ernest's death: how she had discovered Ernest's plans to murder his wife, how she had been working against him from the shadows, using the stolen identity to position herself close to his operations. The real Vanessa, she believed, had been another of Ernest's victims, though her body had never been found.
The woman at the door, however, was neither the real Vanessa nor the impostor. She was Eliza Blackwood, Ernest's younger sister from his father's second marriage, a half-sibling he had largely ignored and excluded from the family business. Eliza had been conspicuously absent from the funeral, sending only a formal arrangement of lilies and a brief note of condolence.
"Eliza," Nina greeted her with a warm embrace that the other woman returned stiffly. "Thank you for coming."
"I got your message," Eliza said, stepping into the foyer with obvious discomfort. "You said it was urgent—something about Ernest's will?"
"Yes, please come in. There are some matters we need to discuss privately."
Nina led Eliza to the formal dining room, where she had set an elegant table for two with fine china and crystal. The cake stood as a centerpiece, its dark surface gleaming under the chandelier light.
"I thought we might have some refreshments while we talk," Nina explained, gesturing for Eliza to sit. "I know how fond you are of chocolate."
Eliza's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the cake. "That looks... intense."
"A special recipe," Nina confirmed, taking a silver cake knife from its place setting. "Ernest always said it was to die for."
She served Eliza a generous slice, placing it before her with practiced grace. Then she took a much smaller piece for herself, more for appearance than intention.
"Now, about the will," Nina began, watching as Eliza tentatively lifted her fork. "There's been an interesting development."
Eliza paused, the fork halfway to her mouth. "What kind of development?"
"It seems Ernest had a secret addendum drawn up. One that specifically excluded me from inheriting his personal assets and directed them instead to... you."
The fork completed its journey to Eliza's mouth. She took a bite of the cake, her expression shifting from surprise at Nina's words to appreciation of the rich chocolate flavor. "That's... that's impossible. Ernest and I were hardly on speaking terms. He made it very clear that I wasn't to expect anything from the Blackwood fortune."
"And yet," Nina continued, watching Eliza take another bite, "there it was, hidden in his safe. A document directing that in the event of his death while still married to me, his personal estate—separate from the business holdings—would transfer to you as 'compensation for previously withheld familial inheritance.'"
Eliza set down her fork, her brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand. Why would he do that?"
Nina took a sip of water, carefully avoiding her own slice of cake. "I believe it was part of a larger plan. Ernest never intended to die while still married to me. The addendum was insurance—if something happened to him before he could execute his plan to eliminate me, you would inherit instead of me. He knew we barely knew each other, that there was no love lost between us. I suspect he assumed you would contest any claim I might make."
Eliza's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her water glass. "Are you suggesting that my brother planned to... kill you?"
"I'm not suggesting it," Nina said calmly. "I know it for a fact. There's evidence—recordings, documents, witness statements. Ernest planned my death in detail. He just didn't count on me discovering his plan."
Eliza stared at her, fork frozen halfway to another bite of cake. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know what kind of man your brother really was," Nina replied. "And because I'm not going to contest the addendum. If you want Ernest's personal assets—his art collection, his vintage cars, his investment portfolios—they're yours. I have no use for them."
"You... you would just give them up? Millions of dollars?"
Nina smiled faintly. "I keep the house, the business holdings, and most importantly, my life. That seems like more than enough."
Eliza resumed eating her cake, processing this information as the rich chocolate melted on her tongue. "This is... extraordinary. Both the situation and this cake."
"It's a special recipe," Nina repeated. "One I save for truly significant occasions."
As Eliza finished her slice, Nina offered her another, which she accepted with less hesitation. "The texture is unusual," Eliza commented between bites. "Slightly gritty, but in a pleasant way. What's your secret?"
Nina's smile deepened. "Bone char," she said truthfully. "It's used to process the black cocoa. Gives it that distinctive depth."
"Fascinating," Eliza murmured, continuing to eat. "Ernest always said you were talented in the kitchen. I suppose that was one thing he was right about."
They discussed the details of the inheritance over the remainder of the cake, which Eliza consumed with increasing enthusiasm while Nina limited herself to the smallest possible bites, most of which she discretely disposed of in her napkin.
When Eliza finally departed, carrying a carefully packaged portion of the remaining cake "for later," Nina stood on the front steps watching her drive away. The cake had served its purpose—a symbolic act of closure, of final dominance over the man who had sought to destroy her. Ernest Blackwood, who had planned to reduce Nina to nothing, had himself been reduced to ash and consumed by the very people he had manipulated in life.
Back in the kitchen, Nina placed the remaining cake—still a substantial portion—into a decorative box. She had one more delivery to make.
The timer on the oven showed the same temperature she had used to bake the cake: 350 degrees Fahrenheit. It was, Nina had discovered through her research, approximately the same temperature used in modern crematoriums to reduce a human body to ash.
The symmetry was satisfying—Ernest's body had been cremated at that temperature, and now a portion of his remains had been baked at the same heat, transformed into something that appeared innocent but contained a dark secret. Much like the man himself had been in life.
As she secured the cake box with a ribbon, Nina reflected that this macabre baking project had provided something the funeral had not—a sense of genuine conclusion. Ernest was truly gone, transformed and diminished by her hand, his power over her life finally and completely severed.
Tomorrow she would deliver the remaining cake to her final intended recipient. But for tonight, she allowed herself a moment of quiet triumph. She had not only survived Ernest's plot against her life but had turned the tables so completely that he had become, quite literally, consumed by his own dark machinations.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight as Nina washed the last traces of cocoa from her hands, its solemn tones echoing through the empty house. A new day was beginning—the first of many in which she would truly be free.
