Chapter 7 - The Empty Chair
Julian snatched the brass key from Lily’s small palm, his fingers brushing against her cold, wet skin. He didn't waste time questioning how a seven-year-old had managed to operate a Victorian dumbwaiter; survival instincts had completely overridden parental logic. He motioned sharply for Clara and Lily to stay behind the heavy marble pillar, holding his weapon close to his chest as he crept toward the double doors of his grandfather’s third-floor study.
The mahogany doors were unlocked, standing ajar by an inch. A faint, eerie sliver of moonlight cut across the threshold, illuminating dancing motes of dust in the freezing air.
Julian placed his boot against the heavy wood and kicked the door wide open, sweeping the barrel of his gun in a wide arc across the room. “Don’t move!”
The beam of his tactical flashlight sliced through the darkness, illuminating the grand, sprawling office. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive Persian rug covered the center of the floor. But the room was entirely empty.
Except for the massive mahogany executive desk at the far end of the room.
Behind it sat Arthur Sterling’s high-backed leather swivel chair, turned completely around so that it faced the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the storm-swept grounds.
Julian lowered his weapon slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stepped across the threshold, his boots clicking sharply on the hardwood floor. Clara followed closely behind him, her white gown sweeping the dust, while Lily slipped past them both with the stealth of a tiny ghost, her bare feet making no sound at all.
“Arthur?” Julian called out, his voice tight and guarded.
There was no response, only the howling wind rattling the reinforced glass of the grand windows.
Julian approached the massive desk, his eyes darting to the papers scattered across its surface. The forty-million-dollar restructuring covenant was lying there, crisp and stark against the dark wood, waiting for a signature that would never come. But beside the papers sat an open laptop, its screen glowing with a live data feed of the Tokyo stock exchange, which was now less than two hours away from opening.
Julian reached the side of the executive chair and grabbed the top of the leather backrest, his knuckles tightening. With a sharp tug, he spun the heavy chair around to face the room.
Clara let out a sharp, choked gasp, her hands flying to her mouth, while Julian froze as if struck by lightning.
Arthur Sterling was slumped sideways in the leather chair, his head tilted at an unnatural, broken angle. His eyes were wide, staring blankly toward the ceiling in eternal, chilling surprise. A dark, viscous stain was spreading slowly across the white dress shirt beneath his tweed vest, pooling around the handle of a silver-hilted letter opener buried deep in his chest.
“He’s… he’s dead,” Clara whispered, her voice trembling violently as she backed away, her shoulder hitting the edge of a bookshelf.
Julian didn't speak. He stepped forward, reaching out two fingers to check for a carotid pulse, even though the gray pallor of the old man’s skin made it painfully obvious that life had left hours ago. There was nothing. Just cold, unyielding flesh.
Suddenly, a soft beep echoed from the open laptop on the desk.
Julian looked down at the screen. A chat window had popped open automatically, overriding the stock charts. A single line of plain text was typing itself out in real-time, character by character, from an unknown, encrypted IP address.
“Check the safe behind the painting, Julian. You’re already too late to save the company, but you might just save your bride.”
May you like
Julian stared at the screen, paralyzed by the grim warning, before a sudden, heavy metallic click echoed from the far corner of the dark study.
---
