Chapter 4: The Second Will
Another crash thundered from upstairs.
Then came the unmistakable sound of a drawer being ripped from its frame.
Someone was inside my father’s study.
Someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.
I handed the sewing box to Elena.
“Stay with my mother.”
She nodded, but her eyes went to the blood spreading across Vanessa’s black dress.
Vanessa sat against the kitchen island, one hand pressed to her shoulder.
Her skin had turned gray.
“Don’t let her die,” I said.
Elena stared at me.
“She tried to kill your mother.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because dead people don’t testify.”
Vanessa looked up at me.
Even wounded, she found enough strength to sneer.
“You always did think like your father.”
I ignored her.
My mother gripped my sleeve.
“Daniel, don’t go upstairs alone.”
“I’m not leaving that will up there.”
“Your father hid more than documents.”
“What does that mean?”
Before she could answer, a gunshot echoed from the hallway.
Aaron appeared near the kitchen entrance.
Blood covered the side of his face.
He held Martin’s pistol in one hand.
“Martin went through the east corridor.”
“Did you hit him?”
“No.”
“Did he hit you?”
Aaron touched the cut above his temple.
“He threw a brass sculpture.”
“Someone’s in the study.”
“I heard.”
“You stay here.”
Aaron gave me a look that would have stopped most men.
“You have no idea who’s upstairs.”
“Neither do you.”
“I have a better idea than you.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked toward my mother.
Not now.
That was what his silence meant.
I moved closer to him.
“Aaron.”
“Get your mother out of the house.”
“The exits may be covered.”
“They are.”
“Then we go up.”
He swore under his breath.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Officer Adams.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“Where are you?”
“Inside my house.”
“You were told not to go there.”
“My mother was being held here.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Who else is inside?”
“Martin Hale.”
“Detective Mercer.”
“Richard Voss.”
“Vanessa.”
“And someone upstairs.”
There was a pause.
“Someone you didn’t expect?”
“Yes.”
“Are there weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Then get down and stay away from the windows.”
“I need officers here without dispatch hearing the address.”
“I can do that.”
“How long?”
“I’m already moving.”
The call ended.
I looked toward Elena.
She had found clean towels and pressed one against Vanessa’s wound.
My mother sat on the floor beside the chair, breathing hard.
Mercer remained near the pantry, unconscious after Aaron had struck him.
Voss was gone.
I looked around.
“Where is Richard?”
Elena’s face changed.
“He was there a second ago.”
A door slammed at the back of the house.
Aaron ran toward it.
I grabbed his arm.
“Let him go.”
“He’ll warn Martin.”
“He already knows we’re here.”
Another crash sounded upstairs.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Heavy.
Crossing the study.
Aaron looked toward the ceiling.
“That isn’t Martin.”
“How can you tell?”
“Martin runs when he’s afraid.”
The footsteps stopped directly above us.
Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Someone stood there.
Listening.
Then the sound moved away.
Toward the hidden staircase beside the library.
Aaron raised the pistol.
“Take the main stairs.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll cut him off.”
We separated.
I crossed the foyer and reached the bottom of the staircase.
The house was almost completely dark.
Only the emergency lights glowed red along the walls.
Family portraits stared down at me.
My grandfather.
My father.
My younger self.
Vanessa had insisted we keep them on display.
At the time, I thought it was respect.
Now I wondered whether she had been studying the family she intended to rob.
I climbed the stairs quietly.
Halfway up, I heard a door open above me.
A shadow crossed the landing.
I pressed myself against the wall.
Someone descended one step.
Then another.
A man appeared through the red light.
He wore a dark coat.
His right hand held a folder.
His left hand held a handgun.
For one terrible second, I thought it was my father.
Same height.
Same broad shoulders.
Same way of carrying his head slightly forward when concentrating.
Then he stepped closer.
It was not my father.
It was Dr. Samuel Pierce.
Our family physician.
The man who had signed my father’s death certificate.
The same doctor who had treated my mother after her stroke.
He froze when he saw me.
I looked at the folder in his hand.
“Put it down.”
He raised the gun.
“You don’t understand what you’re involved in.”
“I understand you declared my father’s murder a heart attack.”
His mouth tightened.
“Move aside.”
“No.”
He glanced behind me.
“You think Martin is the one controlling this?”
“Isn’t he?”
Samuel smiled without humor.
“Martin is a lawyer with expensive habits.”
“He controls paperwork.”
“He does not control the people behind it.”
“Who does?”
He lifted the folder.
“This document is more dangerous than you realize.”
“It names you.”
“It names everyone.”
“Then give it to me.”
“If this becomes public, families will be destroyed.”
“Victims are already dead.”
“You don’t know what your father was doing.”
“I know what you did.”
Samuel’s eyes hardened.
“You were always too emotional.”
“Your father used to say the same thing.”
“What else did he say before you poisoned him?”
His finger tightened around the trigger.
Then a voice came from behind him.
“Drop the gun, Doctor.”
Aaron stood at the top of the stairs.
Samuel turned.
I moved.
I grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the railing.
The gun fired.
The bullet tore into the wall beside my head.
Samuel drove his knee into my stomach.
I lost my breath but held on.
Aaron rushed forward.
Samuel released the folder and twisted free.
The documents scattered across the stairs.
Aaron tackled him against the wall.
Both men fell onto the landing.
Samuel’s gun slid under a narrow table.
I reached for it.
A shot rang out from the hallway.
The wooden table exploded beside my hand.
Martin stood near the east corridor.
His face was streaked with blood.
“Back away from him,” he shouted.
Aaron rolled behind the railing.
Samuel scrambled toward Martin.
I grabbed the fallen folder.
Papers covered the staircase.
Legal documents.
Bank transfers.
Names.
Dates.
Photographs.
At the bottom of the stack was a sealed blue envelope.
My father’s handwriting appeared across the front.
For Daniel.
I shoved it inside my jacket.
Martin saw me do it.
“Give me the envelope.”
“Come take it.”
He raised the gun.
Samuel grabbed his arm.
“Not here.”
Martin stared at him.
“Take your hand off me.”
“We still need him alive.”
“Why?”
“Because the trust cannot be fully dissolved without Daniel’s biometric authorization.”
That sentence explained more than they realized.
The theft was incomplete.
They needed something only I could provide.
My fingerprint.
My voice.
Maybe my retinal scan.
Martin’s eyes shifted toward me.
He understood his mistake.
I looked at Samuel.
“The fake voice wasn’t enough.”
He said nothing.
“You need me to authorize the final transfer.”
Samuel moved slightly in front of Martin.
“We can still make an arrangement.”
Aaron laughed.
“You murdered his father.”
“We protected an organization.”
“From what?” I asked.
“Exposure?”
Samuel looked at me.
“Your father wanted to destroy a network that had existed for decades.”
“A network built on stealing from elderly people.”
“That was one part of it.”
“What was the rest?”
Martin shoved Samuel aside.
“Stop talking.”
Samuel turned on him.
“You lost control of Vanessa.”
“You lost Mercer.”
“You allowed Daniel to return early.”
“Don’t pretend this is my failure.”
Their alliance cracked in front of me.
Martin lifted the pistol toward Samuel.
“You were paid to certify deaths.”
“You were not paid to question decisions.”
Samuel’s expression became cold.
“You forget who introduced you to the board.”
“What board?” I asked.
Neither answered.
Footsteps rushed through the lower floor.
Officer Adams shouted from the foyer.
“Police!”
Martin spun toward the stairs.
Samuel ran the other way.
Aaron lunged after him.
Martin fired twice toward the foyer.
Adams and two officers took cover.
I dropped behind the railing as splinters flew from the banister.
Martin moved toward the hidden corridor.
I followed.
He disappeared behind the library wall.
I reached the panel before it closed and forced myself through.
The passage was narrow and dark.
I heard him running ahead.
The corridor ended at a spiral staircase leading down toward my father’s wine cellar.
I chased him.
At the bottom, the stone floor was wet.
The cellar door stood open.
Martin had vanished.
I stepped inside.
Rows of old bottles filled the walls.
My father had rarely drunk wine.
He used the cellar mostly for storage.
A cold draft touched the back of my neck.
One section of shelving had been pushed aside.
Behind it was a steel door.
I had never seen it before.
It stood open.
Beyond it was a room filled with filing cabinets.
Photographs covered one wall.
Elderly men and women.
Some I recognized from local business circles.
Others I did not.
Each photograph had a date.
A name.
And a red mark.
I moved closer.
The red marks appeared beside names of people who had died.
Twenty-three victims.
Exactly as Aaron had said.
But there were more photographs without marks.
Future targets.
My mother’s picture was near the center.
Below it was mine.
And beside mine was Elena’s.
A note had been written underneath her photograph.
Possible heir.
Confirm identity before removal.
I stared at the words.
Possible heir.
The room seemed to shrink around me.
Elena was not merely a witness.
She was connected to my family.
Behind me, the steel door slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
I turned.
Martin’s voice came through a speaker hidden in the ceiling.
“You should have left the past buried, Daniel.”
A hissing sound began near the floor.
Gas.
I covered my mouth.
The lights shut off.
I reached for the door handle.
Locked.
The room filled with a sweet chemical odor.
My vision blurred almost immediately.
I slammed my shoulder against the door.
Nothing.
I pulled out my phone.
No signal.
The last thing I saw before falling was Elena’s photograph on the wall.
And beneath it, a second handwritten note I had not noticed before.
May you like
Daughter of Jonathan Whitmore.
My father.
