Chapter 7
The sound of the garden gate swinging open sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Clara’s veins. She dropped the tarnished silver music box back onto the grass beside the open trash bag, her dark green cardigan rustling as she whipped around to face the side yard. The narrow pathway between the house and the wooden fence was shrouded in pitch darkness, illuminated only by the faint spill of light from the broken kitchen window.
Heavy, unhurried footsteps began to crunch against the loose gravel of the pathway. Someone was walking toward the backyard with absolute confidence, ignoring the shattered glass and the chaotic mess of trash bags scattered across the lawn.
Elena scrambled up from her knees, her face draining of what little color remained. She grabbed Clara’s arm with a grip so tight it bruised.
“They’re early,” Elena whispered, her teeth chattering with unconcealed terror. “The transfer deadline isn’t for another two hours. They’re not here for the money anymore.”
“Who?” Clara demanded, shaking her arm free from her sister’s desperate hold. She stepped forward, positioning herself between the approaching pathway and the open trash bag. “Who else could possibly be involved in this nightmare?”
A tall silhouette emerged from the darkness of the side yard, stepping into the amber pool of the patio floodlights. It wasn’t the man in the trench coat. Instead, a middle-aged man in a crisp, dark sheriff’s uniform stepped onto the grass, his badge gleaming coldly against his chest. He adjusted the brim of his campaign hat, his expression completely unreadable as his eyes swept over the shattered window, the open trash bags, and the two trembling sisters.
“Evening, ladies,” Sheriff Miller said, his voice deep, calm, and utterly chilling in its casual familiarity. “Dispatch received a silent alarm report regarding a residential disturbance over on Elm Street. Imagine my surprise when I cross-reference the address and realize it’s the old Vance homestead.”
Elena stepped out from behind the patio table, her hands raised slightly in a placating gesture. Her voice shook violently as she spoke. “Sheriff Miller. We didn’t trigger any alarm. Everything here is under control. It’s just a family dispute.”
The sheriff took another slow step forward, his boots crunching on a shard of broken glass. He didn’t look at Elena; his sharp, analytical eyes were fixed entirely on Clara, and more specifically, on the open black plastic bag resting near her brown boots.
“Doesn’t look like a standard family dispute to me, Ms. Vance,” the sheriff noted, his tone laced with a subtle, menacing irony. He glanced up at the jagged hole in the kitchen window. “Looks more like property damage. Or perhaps an attempt to destroy evidence before a scheduled inspection.”
Clara felt a surge of righteous anger override her fear. She stepped directly into the sheriff’s path, her eyes narrowing. “You already know about what’s under the patio slab, don’t you? You were part of the cover-up from day one.”
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Sheriff Miller didn’t flinch. He didn’t deny it. Instead, a slow, grim smile touched the corners of his mouth as he rested his right hand casually on the handle of his service revolver.
“I’m just a law enforcement officer trying to keep peace in this county, Ms. Vance,” the sheriff replied smoothly. “And right now, having two hysterical women digging up three-year-old landscaping in the middle of the night disturbs that peace quite a bit. I think it’s time we step inside and have a polite conversation about what you found in that trunk.”
