Chapter 8 - The Ghost on the Salon Carpet
The glass in Lucas’s hand slipped, shattering against the marble floor with an explosive crash. Golden scotch and amber shards splattered across the expensive rug.
Roderick’s jaw went slack, his champagne flute hovering halfway to his mouth. Gertrude let out a sharp, strangled shriek, her hands flying to her face as if she were staring straight into the eyes of a creature risen from the dead.
For three terrifying seconds, none of them moved. They simply stared at me—standing there in soaked clothes, water pooling at my feet, my posture rigid and unyielding.
“Claire... how... how is that possible?” Lucas stammered, backing away from me until the back of his knees hit the edge of the wet bar. His face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ghostly grey. “We saw you... you went over the rail...”
“Gravity is a predictable force, Lucas,” I said, walking slowly into the center of the salon, my bare feet making soft, rhythmic thuds against the floor. “Too bad you forgot to check if I knew how to swim before you tried to collect your inheritance.”
Gertrude stumbled backward against her husband, her voice trembling with rising hysteria. “It’s a trick! It’s a ghost—Roderick, do something!”
Before Roderick could reach for the heavy brass decorative figurine on the side table, the salon door behind me swung wide open.
May you like
Marcus stepped into the room, followed by two armed private security operators in full tactical gear, their suppressed carbines leveled squarely at the center of the room.
“Hands where we can see them,” Marcus commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze boiling water. “Move an inch, and we skip the courtroom entirely.”
