Chapter 20 - The Headlights in the Driveway
The storm hit Crestview Terrace with full fury at 5:30 AM.
Gale-force winds screamed through the towering oak trees, tearing branches from their trunks and flinging them across the frozen lawn.
The estate had lost power an hour ago.
The entire three-story mansion stood pitch-black against the violent, swirling snow, like an abandoned fortress waiting for its final siege.
Inside the dark study, Arthur stood by the towering bay windows.
He held his father’s old .38 revolver in his right hand.
The cylinder was fully loaded with six rounds he had scavenged from the gun safe.
Agent Harris and a tactical SWAT team were supposed to be twenty minutes behind him, delayed by the blinding blizzard that had shut down the turnpike.
He was completely alone.
The house creaked and groaned under the assault of the wind.
Every shadow seemed to shift. Every whistle of the storm through the eaves sounded like Eleanor’s mocking whisper.
He looked down at his watch.
5:42 AM.
Suddenly, the security lights at the front gate flickered once—powered by the estate’s backup generator.
*Clack. Whirrr.*
The heavy wrought-iron security gates slowly groaned open, parting the darkness.
Arthur pressed his forehead against the freezing glass of the window, his breath fogging the pane.
Through the curtain of driving white snow, two powerful halogen high beams cut through the blizzard.
A dark SUV rolled silently up the winding circular driveway, its tires crunching heavily over the unplowed gravel.
Arthur’s heart slammed violently against his ribs. His hand tightened around the checkered grip of the revolver until his knuckles turned bone-white.
The SUV stopped directly in front of the grand portico.
The engine purred for a moment, then cut off.
The headlights remained on, illuminating the falling snow in two blinding cones of light aimed straight at the front door.
The driver's door swung open.
A tall man stepped out into the freezing wind, wearing a heavy black woolen trench coat.
He turned his face toward the house, his familiar, sharp jawline illuminated by the dashboard glow.
It was Thomas.
He was older, his face leaner and hardened by years of hiding, but there was no mistaking his brother's arrogant, predatory smile.
Then, the passenger door opened.
A woman stepped out into the blizzard.
She wasn't wearing an orange jumpsuit or green prison scrubs.
She wore a tailored black coat, leather gloves, and her platinum blonde hair was pulled back into an immaculate, flawless chignon.
She looked up at the second-floor window where Arthur was standing.
Even through the driving snow and the darkness, Eleanor locked eyes with him.
She slowly raised her right hand.
In her gloved fingers, gleaming dully in the headlights, she held a heavy, familiar object.
It was the bronze candlestick.
Beside her, Thomas reached into the back seat of the SUV and pulled out a heavy metal can of industrial gasoline.
Eleanor tilted her head, her lips parting into that same sweet, horrifying smile that had haunted Arthur's nightmares.
Then, from the dark hallway directly behind Arthur, a floorboard creaked.
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A soft, cold voice whispered into his ear:
"You should have locked the cellar door, Arthur."
