Chapter 6 - The Latch on the Iron Gate
The metal clink from the courtyard hung in the midnight air like a plucked guitar string. Vincent’s hand left the arm of his chair, sliding inward toward the heavy iron-framed revolver tucked inside his mahogany desk drawer.
"Get under the desk, Addy," Vincent commanded, his voice a low, lethal hiss.
Addy didn't panic. She didn't cry. With the practiced obedience of a soldier taking cover, she dropped flat onto the Persian rug and wriggled backward into the kneehole space beneath the heavy wood, pulling her small knees tight against her chest.
Vincent didn't draw the gun immediately. He sat still, listening with the strained intensity of a man whose survival depended on sound alone.
Down in the courtyard, the amber glow of the security lamps cast erratic shadows through the French windows. Footsteps scraped across the gravel—not the heavy, boots-on-concrete stride of Marcus Ellery’s trained gate guards, but light, cautious, predatory steps. Someone was moving along the perimeter wall, hugging the shadow of the grand magnolia trees where the blossoms had fallen all week.
A sharp rap echoed against the glass of the side window—three quick ticks, followed by a pause, then one more. A signal.
Vincent slid the drawer open, his fingers closing around the cold steel grip of the revolver. He cocked the hammer with a muffled click that felt loud enough to wake the house.
Before he could push himself up from the chair, the side door of the study—the same door the man in the dark jacket had used three nights ago—swung inward.
A shadow slipped into the room, tall and thin, moving with the fluid silence of a cat. The intruder wore a dark turtleneck and carried a long, narrow duffel bag across one shoulder. He didn't turn on the lights. He crept toward the mahogany desk, heading straight for the lower left-hand drawer where Vincent kept the estate’s secondary ledger books.
"Looking for something, friend?" Vincent asked, his voice cutting through the dark like a razor.
The shadow froze mid-stride, a sharp intake of breath rattling in the intruder's throat. Before the man could dive or reach for a weapon, Vincent flicked on the small brass desk lamp.
The amber light flooded the desk, illuminating a pale, sweat-slicked face with hollow cheeks and terrified eyes.
It wasn't Julian Moreau. It wasn't a hired gun from New Orleans.
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It was Toby, the estate’s junior stable hand—the boy whose background check had come back clean six months ago because Camille Budro herself had vouched for him.
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