Chapter 8
The barrel of the silenced pistol caught the dim light filtering through the parlor window, casting a dull, metallic gleam directly into Clara’s eyes. She remained frozen on her knees against the carpet, the encrypted flash drive burning like a hot coal in her clenched fist. The air in the room grew thick with the smell of gun oil and impending violence.
“Drop the drive, girl,” the stranger in the trench coat commanded, his voice unnervingly calm. “Or Mr. Vance won't live long enough to see his precious corporate empire dissolved by the state.”
In the hallway, Julian thrashed against the federal marshals, his face contorted in a rare display of raw, unfiltered agony. “Leave her alone!” Julian roared, blood vessels bulging in his temples. “She has nothing to do with this! Take me! Take everything I own, but let her walk away!”
Beatrice picked herself up off the marble floor, her red gown ruined, her hair wild. She glared at Clara with pure, unadulterated venom. “Give it to him, you little fool,” Beatrice spat, her voice trembling with hysteria. “Do you want to die for a ghost who never even loved you?”
Clara slowly turned her head, looking past the armed man at the gold-framed mirror hanging in the grand hallway. In its reflection, she saw Elena standing near the staircase, weeping silently, hands clamped over her mouth. She saw the crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across a house built on lies, theft, and blood.
“She loved me,” Clara whispered, her voice steadying as a quiet, fierce resolve replaced her fear. “And she didn't die by accident. You murdered her because she refused to sign the shipping manifests.”
The stranger’s eyes flickered with a micro-expression of surprise, instantly replaced by a cold, calculated ruthlessness. He cocked the hammer of the pistol.
“You talk too much for a maid,” the stranger said, tightening his finger on the trigger.
Before the shot could echo through the parlor, the federal marshal leading the team burst through the doorway, his own weapon leveled at the stranger's back.
“Drop your weapon! Federal agent! Drop it now!”
The stranger in the trench coat didn't flinch. Instead, with terrifying speed, he spun around, using Clara as a human shield, wrapping his left arm around her neck and pressing the cold barrel against her temple.
“Take one step closer, agent,” the stranger snarled, “and the girl's brains decorate this antique wallpaper.”
Clara gasped for air, her fingers slipping slightly, but she managed to keep her fist tightly closed around the flash drive. She looked directly into the lens of the security camera mounted in the corner of the parlor ceiling, knowing every second was being recorded to the main estate server.
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“Do it,” Clara choked out, looking at the lead marshal. “Shoot through me.”
***
