“Hold on, Mr. Whitmore,” Briggs said coldly. “We’ve got one more piece of business to settle before anyone leaves this foyer.”
Harold frowned in the dark. “What business?”
Briggs turned his flashlight toward the grand staircase. Standing at the top of the stairs was Jacob, holding a video camera—the family camcorder Ethan used to record birthdays. The red recording light was blinking in the dark.
“An hour ago, our exterior security cameras captured an assault on this property,” Captain Briggs stated, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt. “The owner has filed formal charges. Mr. Whitmore, put your hands behind your back.”
Harold froze, his face going completely white. “You… you can’t arrest me! I didn’t do anything!”
“You struck a minor on camera, Harold,” I said, stepping back into the shadows of my new home. “And that minor is the primary heir to the rest of Ethan’s estate.”
But as Captain Briggs stepped forward to click the handcuffs around Harold’s wrists, a sudden, piercing scream echoed from the back of the house.
It wasn’t Eleanor. It wasn’t one of my children.
It was the sound of shattering glass from the basement—followed by a heavy, mechanical thud that shook the entire foundation of the house.
Captain Briggs stopped. Harold’s eyes widened with a look of sheer, unadulterated terror that went far beyond the fear of being arrested.
“Oh no,” Harold whispered, his voice cracking with a secret he had kept hidden for fourteen years. “Not the basement. Claire, you don’t know what’s down there… you can’t let them open it…”
