Chapter 5: The Ghost Returns
The man standing on the patio stone looked older, his hair completely white and his face lined with deep, weathered creases, but the piercing, predatory blue eyes were entirely unchanged. He looked down at the crushed frosting on his shoes with a look of mild, detached amusement rather than surprise.
"Mother," the man said smoothly, nodding toward Eleanor. "And Clara. Look how much you’ve grown, sweetheart. Though I see your taste in party decorations leaves something to be desired."
"You're supposed to be dead, Richard," Eleanor said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to maintain her iron composure. "You took the money, you took the passports, and you were never supposed to set foot in this country again."
Richard chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that lacked any warmth. "Plans change, Eleanor. Markets crash. People talk. And when someone starts digging around in my old safety deposit boxes, a retired old man has to come out of retirement to manage his investments."
He slowly turned his gaze toward Arthur, looking him up and down with clinical detachment.
"And who is this?" Richard asked, tilting his head slightly. "A young man standing in my backyard looking like he’s about to read me my last rites. Let me guess. One of the collateral damage kids from the nineties? A Miller? A Vance?"
"A Hayes," Arthur said, taking a deliberate step forward until he was standing just inches from the older man. "My name is Arthur Hayes. My father was David Hayes."
Richard’s smile didn't fade, but his eyes narrowed into sharp, calculating slits. "David. Now there’s a name I haven't heard in a long time. Poor David. He just didn't have the stomach for high finance. Always worrying about ethics while the rest of us were building empires."
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"He had ethics," Arthur snarled, his restraint finally snapping as he grabbed the lapel of Richard’s expensive wool coat. "You framed him, ruined his life, and drove him off a bridge!"
Before Arthur could pull his fist back, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the quiet garden. Richard calmly pulled a small, silver revolver from his coat pocket and pressed the cold barrel directly against Arthur’s chest.
