Chapter 7
The iron gates of the Vance estate loomed darkly against the overcast night sky, half-hidden by overgrown weeping willows. The sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion sat on a secluded ridge overlooking the city, bathed in the artificial glow of high-end security floodlights.
Clara crouched behind a dense thicket of bougainvillea, adjusting the dark wool cap pulled low over her blonde hair. Beside her, Marcus checked a small, modified tablet that displayed the estate’s infrared security grid.
"The perimeter sensors run on a thirty-second sweep," Marcus whispered, his breath pluming in the cool night air. "When the main house patrol rounds the west wing, we have a four-minute window to cross the courtyard and access the third-floor balcony via the trellis."
"And Margaret?" Clara asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"She’s hosting a private charity board dinner in downtown LA tonight. She won't be back until midnight at the earliest. Richard is likely staying late at the studio trying to manage the PR fallout from your exit."
"Let's move," Clara said softly.
They crossed the open gravel courtyard in silence, their footsteps muffled by the thick rubber soles of their boots. Marcus reached the heavy wooden trellis first, testing its stability with a firm tug before hoisting himself upward like a seasoned climber. Clara followed closely behind, drawing upon a reserve of physical strength she didn't know she possessed.
The third-floor balcony door was unlocked—a testament to the arrogance of a family that believed themselves entirely untouchable. Marcus slid the glass panel open with a silent, practiced motion, and they stepped into Margaret’s private study.
The room smelled of old leather, expensive perfume, and dark mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, interspersed with framed photographs of Richard shaking hands with politicians and studio executives. Clara didn't waste time admiring the opulent decor. She walked straight to the heavy oil painting of Margaret’s late husband that dominated the north wall.
"According to the architectural logs," Clara murmured, tracing the gilded frame, "the wall safe is directly behind the portrait."
Marcus stepped up beside her, gently swinging the heavy canvas outward on concealed brass hinges. A heavy digital keypad safe was embedded flush into the stone masonry.
May you like
"Do you have the combination?" Marcus asked, pulling a small diagnostic device from his jacket pocket.
"I don't need a code," Clara replied, a slight smile touching her lips. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, yellowed index card—a copy of her father’s old engineering notes that Elena had kept tucked inside a dictionary. "My father designed this vault. He left a mechanical override for maintenance access."
