Chapter 12
The crack of thunder rolled across the bay, shaking the wooden pilings of the boathouse. Eleanor Vance’s finger twitched on the trigger of the silver revolver. With a sharp metallic snap, the hammer fell—not with a lethal shot, but on an empty chamber. The click echoed loudly against the wooden deck.
Eleanor stared down at the gun in sheer disbelief, her face draining of what little color remained. She pulled the trigger again. Click. The magazine was empty.
Before she could reach into her evening gown for a spare cartridge, Detective Thomas lunged forward across the gangway, closing the distance in three swift strides. He knocked the useless weapon from her hand, sending it clattering into the dark, churning water of the bay below. With practiced efficiency, Thomas grabbed Eleanor’s wrists, spinning her around and pressing her hard against the yacht’s polished brass railing.
“Eleanor Vance, you are under arrest for attempted murder, arson, and federal financial fraud,” Thomas recited crisply, snapping the cold steel handcuffs around her wrists with a sharp clack.
Eleanor didn’t scream. She didn’t thrash or sob hysterically. Instead, her body went completely rigid, her eyes fixed on the dark horizon where the storm met the sea. The mask of aristocratic perfection had finally shattered completely, leaving behind only the cold, empty shell of a woman consumed by her own greed.
Martha stood at the edge of the deck, lowering the heavy iron tire iron slowly to her side. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the long, grueling days began to drain away, leaving a profound, aching exhaustion in its wake. She looked down at her soot-stained grey uniform sleeves, realizing that the nightmare was finally drawing to a close.
Thomas turned Eleanor around, holding her firmly by the arm as he guided her back down the gangway toward the pier. He looked over his shoulder at Martha, offering a tired, reassuring nod. “Call dispatch, Martha. Tell them we have our suspect. It’s over.”
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Martha reached into her coat pocket, pulling out her cell phone with trembling fingers. As she dialed the precinct number, the heavy rain began to slow, the thick storm clouds parting just enough to let a pale sliver of moonlight pierce through the gloom, illuminating the ruined skeleton of Blackwood Manor in the distance.
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