She Heard Her Grandson Screaming Behind the Nursery Door—Then She Saw His Father Sitting There Doing Nothing. But the moment Grandma noticed the tiny red light above the crib, she realized the camera had captured something far worse than anyone expected. / Chapter 28 / 50

Chapter 28 - Bloodlines and Betrayal

The chute opened behind a false oak bookcase in the service pantry adjacent to the lodge’s grand library.

Margaret pulled herself up onto the polished floorboards, her muscles screaming with agony, every breath tasting like copper and soot. Ethan followed an instant later, silent as a shadow, holding a heavy iron pry bar he had taken from Tommy’s emergency kit.

The sound of classical music—Vivaldi’s *Winter*—drifted through the cracked oak door, accompanied by the distinct clinking of ice in a crystal glass.

Ethan gestured to the left, but Margaret held up her hand. She pressed her eye to the door hinge.

Inside the two-story library, surrounded by thousands of leather-bound books and massive hunting trophies, sat Arthur Sinclair. He was seventy years old, impeccably groomed despite the late hour, wearing a dark cashmere turtleneck, sitting behind a massive carved mahogany desk. On the desk sat three open laptop computers, their screens displaying live law enforcement radio frequencies, news feeds showing Ethan's face plastered with "WANTED" banners, and the encrypted cloud server holding the doctored files.

Standing across the desk from him, counting a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, was a man in a soaked yellow slicker.

Julian Vance.

"The boy went down with the boat?" Arthur asked casually, swirling his scotch in the glass.

"Dead at the bottom of the lake," Julian answered coldly, slipping the money into a waterproof pouch inside his coat. "The mother’s car is already parked at the bus depot with an open ticket to Miami. The cops think Ethan murdered the kid and Vanessa fled the state. Your narrative is airtight, Arthur."

"A shame about the boy," Arthur murmured, without a shred of emotion in his voice. "He had his grandfather’s eyes. But debts must be settled in full, Julian. The blood of the father, visited upon the sons."

"My money is settled," Julian said, zipping his pouch. "I want the floatplane keys. The wind is dropping. I leave now."

Arthur reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out a set of brass keys on a leather fob and tossed them across the green blotter.

Julian reached for them.

*BANG.*

The gunshot was muffled, suppressed, a sharp *thwip* that barely rattled the crystal on the desk.

Julian gasped, his eyes bulging wide as he looked down at the dark red bloom spreading instantly across his yellow slicker over his sternum. He staggered backward, his hands grasping at the air, crashing heavily into a high leather armchair before sliding down onto the floor, his heels drumming once against the carpet before falling still.

Arthur Sinclair calmly lowered the suppressed Walther pistol in his hand, placed it on the desk, and took a sip of his scotch.

"Loose ends," Arthur said aloud to the empty room. "Always the most tedious part of business."

Behind the pantry door, Ethan’s knuckles cracked around the iron pry bar. He began to lunge, but Margaret gripped his shoulder with terrifying strength, her fingernails biting through his jacket.

"Wait," she whispered directly into his ear. "Look at the floorboards near the fireplace."

Ethan stopped.

Arthur stood up from his desk, walked over to the massive stone hearth, and knelt down. He pulled back the corner of a heavy wool rug, revealing a circular brass dial set directly into the flagstone floor.