Chapter 8 - Caught in the Crosshairs
A tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke charcoal overcoat stepped into the office, his hand reaching instinctively for the wall light switch.
"Who's there?" Arthur Vance barked, his voice sharp and authoritative. "If you're cleaning staff, you know damn well not to touch my desk—"
The overhead lights snapped on, flooding the room with a brilliant, blinding glare. Vance froze midway across the Persian rug, his eyes locking onto me sitting comfortably in his leather executive chair with his laptop open in front of me.
For a fraction of a second, panic flickered across Vance's polished, aging face. Then, just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating professional smirk.
"Shawn Miller," Vance said smoothly, buttoning his coat and walking toward his desk as if he owned the entire county—which, legally speaking, he practically did. "I heard about the unpleasant commotion at your family home tonight. Terrible business with your sister. The stress of the holidays makes people do irrational things."
I didn't stand up. I kept my eyes locked on his face, my fingers resting lightly on the edge of the keyboard.
"Irrational things?" I repeated softly. "Is that what you call starving two elderly people in a concrete cellar for four years so you could clear the title for Apex Holdings?"
Vance’s smirk tightened. He stopped three feet from the desk, resting his hands casually in his pockets. "You're trespassing in a private law office in the middle of the night, Mr. Miller. Nothing on that screen is admissible in a court of law, and any data you think you've accessed is protected by attorney-client privilege regarding my representation of the Miller estate."
"Your representation of a forged power of attorney," I corrected him, standing up slowly and towering over the desk. "You helped Brenda lock my parents away. You used my own money to fund the legal trap. And now you think you can walk away with the valley because my sister took the fall?"
Vance let out a dry, condescending chuckle. "And who are you going to tell, Shawn? The local sheriff? I coached him through his academy tuition twenty years ago. The district attorney? We play golf every Sunday. You're an outsider who hasn't stepped foot in this town in twelve years. To the local courts, you're just an absentee son stirring up trouble."
He stepped closer, leaning over the mahogany desk.
May you like
"Take your parents, pack your bags, and go back to Columbus," Vance whispered, his tone dropping into a venomous threat. "Drop the investigation into the property deeds, sign the waiver of probate claims by tomorrow noon, and I'll make sure Brenda only serves six months in a minimum-security facility. If you don't... well, let's just say accidents happen on icy winter roads in Pennsylvania."
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