Chapter 6: The Boathouse Ambush
The flashlight beam pinned Chloe against the damp retaining wall like a bug under a microscope. Panic surged through her chest, freezing her limbs for a fraction of a second before survival instinct kicked in. She scrambled sideways through the brush, ignoring the thorns tearing at her skin, and bolted down the remaining slope toward the jagged rocks of Blackwood Cove.
"Stop right there!" the guard yelled, his heavy boots crushing twigs just behind her.
Chloe threw herself over a rotting wooden fence, tumbling down the final embankment into the dilapidated structure of the old family boathouse. The air inside smelled heavily of rotting salt wood, old gasoline, and dust. She slammed the warped wooden door shut and threw the heavy iron latch into place just as a heavy shoulder slammed against the outside, rattling the entire frame.
"Open up!" the guard shouted, kicking the wood with a deafening thud.
Chloe backed into the darkness, clutching the leather journal and her phone like a lifeline. The screen flickered: battery at seven percent. The secure broadcasting app Marcus had sent was installed, but the signal inside the metal-reinforced boathouse was dangerously weak.
"Come on, connect," she whimpered, tapping the screen frantically as a loading bar crawled across the display at a glacial pace.
Outside, the kicking stopped. For a terrifying moment, there was absolute silence. Then, the heavy crunch of glass shattering echoed from the side window. A gloved hand reached through the broken pane, sliding the window latch open with practiced ease.
Chloe didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy iron wrench from a workbench and swung it downward with all her remaining strength, connecting with the intruder's wrist with a sickening crack.
A muffled oath of pain echoed from the window, followed by the sound of boots dropping back onto the gravel outside. But she knew they wouldn't give up. They were desperate, and time was running out.
The phone screen suddenly flashed green. Connection established. Ready to broadcast.
Without wasting a second, Chloe propped the phone against a stack of empty lobster traps, angling the camera toward her face while holding the open journal up to the dim light filtering through the dusty skylight. She hit the red record button.
May you like
"My name is Chloe Vance," she whispered into the lens, her voice trembling but clear. "If you are watching this, my mother, Evelyn Vance, is dead, and the people running her company are murderers."
As the viewer counter ticked from zero to five hundred in mere seconds, the heavy front door of the boathouse suddenly groaned, and the iron latch slowly began to bend under an overwhelming force.
