Chapter 12
The rain began to fall in heavy, slanting sheets as Detective Miller’s unmarked cruiser, flanked by two county sheriff's vehicles, turned down the private gravel drive of Arthur's estate. The red and blue emergency lights flashed silently against the wet windows of the house, casting long, erratic crimson shadows across the empty driveway.
Tom stepped out of his car, pulling his jacket tight against the chill, and motioned to his deputies. "Perimeter secure the back and sides. No one enters or leaves without my command."
The deputies moved with practiced, efficient professionalism, fanning out toward the rear porch and side doors. Tom walked up the front steps, his hand resting reassuringly near the holster at his hip. He didn't bother knocking; with a firm shove, he pushed the heavy oak front door open, stepping into the dark, quiet living room.
"Police! Sheriff's department!" Tom called out, his voice echoing off the hardwood floors.
The house was dead silent, save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. There was no sound of footsteps, no welcoming voice, no subtle rustle of satin pajamas. Tom drew his service weapon, holding it at a low ready position as he advanced toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. The glass of water Arthur had poured earlier still sat on the counter. Tom checked the pantry, the utility room, and the ground-floor study, finding nothing. He moved toward the grand staircase, his boots clicking softly on the risers as he ascended to the second-floor landing.
The door to Lily’s pink-lit bedroom stood slightly ajar, the lock broken from when Arthur had forced it earlier. Tom pushed it open with the barrel of his flashlight, scanning the empty pink duvet, the scattered coloring books, and the antique desk in the corner. Everything was exactly as Arthur had described it, but the room was entirely devoid of human presence.
Where was she?
Tom retraced his steps down the hall toward the master suite. The door was pulled shut. He raised his boot and kicked it open with a sharp, echoing crash.
The master bedroom was bathed in the dim gray light of the stormy afternoon. Elena stood by the large bay window, looking out toward the front gates where the police cruisers sat idling. She wasn't wearing her satin pajamas anymore; she had changed into a sharp, dark wool suit, her dark hair still tied back with immaculate precision. On the mahogany dressing table beside her sat an open leather suitcase, half-filled with passport documents, stacked bundles of cash, and international flight tickets.
May you like
Elena didn't turn around in panic as Tom stepped into the room. She simply lowered her hands from the window frame and turned slowly to face him, a faint, polite smile touching her lips.
"Detective Miller, I presume," Elena said, her voice entirely calm, cool, and collected. "You're somewhat later than I expected."
