Chapter 10 - The Deputy's True Colors
The rain drummed a frantic beat against the metal patio roof as the flashlight beam from Miller’s weapon illuminated the cold, steady glare in the officer’s eyes.
"Step away from him, Arthur," Miller said, his voice completely devoid of the neighborly warmth he had worn just minutes before.
Arthur slowly released Samuel’s collar, his hands raised defensively. "Miller, what the hell are you doing? My daughter is out there in the freezing woods!"
"Your daughter is exactly where she needs to be," Miller replied smoothly, keeping the barrel of the Glock locked dead on Arthur’s center mass. "Some properties aren't meant to be sold, Arthur. Some land has a history that requires specific guardians. When you bought this acreage from the county estate sale, you didn't read the conservation easement clause in section twelve."
Samuel chuckled softly from the railing, rubbing his handcuffed wrists. "He never reads the fine print. City people never do. They think a fresh coat of white paint erases thirty years of blood."
Arthur’s mind raced through the legal documents he had signed during the purchase—the endless pages of boilerplate text he had skimmed through late at night while Clara was working her shifts. "A conservation easement... that’s impossible. This is private residential zoning."
"Not legally," Miller corrected, taking a slow step forward. "The county zoned it residential by mistake in 2012, but the original land deed from 1980 dictates that the property must remain under the stewardship of the Vance family bloodline—or those designated by the local sheriff’s office to protect the perimeter."
"Protect it from what?" Arthur shouted, the absurdity and horror of the situation crashing down on him. "From a dead man?"
"From the things Thomas found out here before he stopped running," Miller said, his expression hardening into stone. "Now turn around and put your hands behind your back, Arthur. You’re coming with us to the root cellar."
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Before Arthur could move, a sharp, piercing scream echoed from the deep treeline—a child’s voice calling out in pure, unfiltered terror.
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