Chapter 5
The silence in the foyer was absolute,
broken only by the sound of Sloane's ragged breathing,
and the relentless drumming of the rain against the glass.
Mrs. Bell emerged from the kitchen corridor,
holding a heavy silver candlestick,
her eyes blazing with an ancient,
protective fire.
"We need to lock the perimeter,"
Daniel said quickly,
moving into professional mode,
his injuries seemingly forgotten in the face of imminent danger.
"Mrs. Bell,
secure the back terrace doors,"
I ordered,
taking charge of my home,
refusing to be a victim in these halls ever again.
Sloane stood in the center of the room,
dripping wet,
looking like a frightened,
lost child.
"Why did you come to me?"
I asked her,
my voice tight with anger and confusion,
"after everything you did to me,
why would you think I would protect you?"
Sloane wiped her eyes,
smearing her dark mascara across her pale skin,
and let out a bitter,
broken laugh.
"Because you are good,"
she said softly,
looking directly into my eyes,
"you built a foundation to protect women from violent men,
and despite what I did,
I knew you were the only person strong enough to stop Arthur."
I hated that she was right,
I hated that my moral compass would not allow me to throw her back out into the deadly storm.
"Go into the study,"
I told her sharply,
pointing down the hall,
"lock the door,
and do not come out until I tell you it is safe."
She nodded frantically,
rushing down the corridor,
leaving a trail of water behind her.
Daniel returned from the front windows,
his face grim,
and his jaw set tightly.
"Two black SUVs just pulled up to the main gate,"
he reported,
"and they are not waiting for an invitation,
they are cutting the heavy chain."
My heart pounded,
but my mind felt strangely clear,
sharpened by the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
"They want the ledgers,"
I said,
walking toward my mother's antique desk in the hallway,
"but they are not going to find them."
I opened the secret compartment hidden behind the desk mirror,
a trick my mother had taught me when I was just a little girl,
and pulled out a heavy,
loaded revolver.
Daniel raised his eyebrows in surprise,
watching me check the cylinder with practiced ease,
a skill I had learned to protect myself on lonely,
dark nights.
"Margaret Hawthorne raised a fighter,"
Daniel murmured,
a small,
proud smile appearing on his lips.
"She raised a survivor,"
I corrected him,
clicking the cylinder firmly into place,
"and nobody takes my home from me."
The sound of breaking glass echoed from the kitchen,
a loud,
shattering crash that signaled the breach.
They were inside the house,
moving through the shadows,
hunting for the secrets that could destroy their master.
I took a deep breath,
smelling the lavender polish on the wood,
the salt from the sea,
and the metallic scent of impending violence.
"Let's go,"
I whispered,
May you like
stepping forward into the dark,
ready to defend my legacy.
