Chapter 7 - The Desperation Play
Richard’s lunge was fast, driven by the blind panic of a cornered animal, but desperation is a poor substitute for tactical training.
Before his fingers could graze the edge of the titanium hard drive, I pivoted on my heel, bringing the heavy brass paperweight down with calculated force against the edge of the mahogany desk right in front of his path. The deafening crack of brass hitting wood echoed like a gunshot through the silent study, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"Step back, Richard," I commanded, my voice flat, cold, and entirely devoid of mercy. "Another inch and I won't aim for the desk."
Richard stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he clutched his bruised wrist against his chest. His eyes darted frantically around the ransacked room, realizing too late that his family's money, influence, and high-society protection couldn't save him from a mother protecting her child.
"You're making a catastrophic mistake, Colonel," Richard hissed, his voice trembling with impotent rage. "That drive... that report... they don't prove what you think they prove. That girl six years ago—she was a voluntary guest. She chose to take those pills. We didn't murder her."
"Nobody used the word 'murder' yet, Richard," I noted smoothly, my eyes narrowing as I watched him sweat. "You supplied the word all on your own. That's fascinating for a corporate lawyer who supposedly had nothing to do with it."
Emily stepped out from behind my shoulder, her voice shaking but filled with a cold, piercing clarity. "Who was she, Richard? What was her name?"
Richard glared at Emily, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. "Her name was Chloe. A naive little artist from out of state, just like you, Emily. She thought she could marry into the Prescott family, demand independence, and walk away with company secrets. Just like you tried to do."
The blood drained from Emily's face. She staggered back a step, gripping the back of the leather armchair for support. "Just like me... they tried to do this to me, too? They locked her in that guesthouse?"
"They locked her in the guesthouse until she stopped breathing," I finished for him, looking down at the autopsy report in my hand. The name at the top finally caught the light: Chloe Vance—no relation. But the signature at the bottom of the municipal cover-up was signed by Margaret Prescott.
"You didn't just abuse my daughter," I whispered, stepping slowly toward Richard until he was pressed flat against the mahogany bookcase. "You tried to run a recurring domestic elimination program for any woman who dared defy the Prescott name."
Richard’s eyes darted toward the hallway window. "You can't prove a single—"
Before he could finish the sentence, the heavy front doors downstairs swung open wide, accompanied by the firm, authoritative shout of federal agents sweeping the estate.
"FBI! Nobody move!" Agent Hayes’s voice boomed up the grand staircase.
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Richard’s face lost its last remaining trace of color. He looked at me, looked at the open safe, and then lunged toward the window, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick to smash the reinforced glass.
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