Chapter 4 - The Serpent's Strike
The storm that had been brewing over the Chesapeake all week finally broke on Thursday night.
The wind howled through the ancient oaks surrounding the estate, throwing heavy sheets of rain against the glass of the sunroom. Inside, the lights flickered, the old wiring of the stone mansion struggling against the force of the autumn gale.
Teddy sat on the rug in the center of the room, her yellow plastic giraffe standing guard over a castle she had built from wooden blocks.
Marisol was sitting on the sofa, a basket of laundry in her lap, her eyes fixed on the glass doors that led to the terrace. Rowan had gone to the docks three hours earlier with Gerald to meet with two of the harbor board members who were still loyal to him. It was a dangerous move—if Victor’s men saw him, the game would be over—but Rowan needed to ensure he had the votes before the meeting on Friday.
Suddenly, Teddy stopped playing.
She stood up, her small head tilted to the side, her fingers reaching up to touch her pink hearing aid. She turned her head toward the grand staircase that led to the master suite.
"Cece," Teddy signed, her fingers moving quickly. "Heavy feet. The bad giant is here."
Marisol’s heart stopped.
She stood up, letting the laundry basket slide to the floor, her ears straining against the roar of the wind.
Through the hum of the storm, she heard it.
The heavy, rhythmic click of leather shoes on the marble floor of the foyer.
It wasn't Gerald. Gerald’s steps were soft, polite. It wasn't Rowan. Rowan walked with a long, silent stride that had no rhythm.
It was Victor.
Marisol grabbed Teddy, pulling her behind the heavy velvet drapes of the sunroom just as the double doors of the foyer swung open.
Victor walked into the hall. He was wearing his long black cashmere coat, wet with rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. He did not look like the polished, elegant businessman who had sat in Rowan’s room earlier that week. His face was twisted with a frantic, desperate fury, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
He was holding a leather folder in his left hand, and in his right...
In his right hand, he was holding a heavy, black automatic pistol.
"Dr. Vance!" Victor roared, his voice bouncing off the high stone walls of the foyer. "Vance, you coward! Where are you?"
No one answered. The house was empty, the servants having been sent home early by Gerald to clear the stage for the final act.
Victor began to climb the grand staircase, his wet coat dripping on the red carpet.
"I know you’re here, Rowan!" Victor screamed, his voice cracking with a high, hysterical edge. "I saw the security logs! You didn't take the medicine! You’ve been dumping it! You’ve been playing me for a fool!"
Marisol pressed her back against the wall behind the drapes, her hand clamped tightly over Teddy’s mouth. Teddy did not struggle. She stood perfectly still, her dark eyes wide with a pure, instinctual understanding of the danger that stood ten feet away.
Victor reached the landing of the second floor. He kicked open the door to the master suite, the sound of the wood splintering echoing through the house like a gunshot.
"Where is she?" Victor’s voice came from the master bedroom, muffled but furious. "The maid! The little quiet one! She’s the one who’s been helping you, isn't she? I’ll cut her throat first!"
Marisol felt a cold, paralyzing terror grip her limbs. She looked down at Teddy.
"Teddy," Marisol signed with her free hand, her fingers trembling so badly she could barely form the shapes. "Stay here. Do not move. Do not make a sound. Mommy has to go."
Teddy grabbed her mother’s skirt, her small face pale, her lower lip trembling. She signed back, her fingers frantic.
"No, Mommy. The bad giant has a gun. He will make you sleep."
"I have to, baby," Marisol whispered, her tears finally spilling over. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, gently pried the little fingers from her skirt, and stepped out from behind the velvet drapes.
She walked out into the grand foyer, her head held high, her voice clear and strong despite the terror that was screaming inside her head.
"I’m here, Victor," Marisol called out.
Victor stopped. He walked out onto the second-floor landing, his gun pointed down at the foyer where she stood.
His face turned into an ugly, triumphant sneer.
"There you are," Victor said, his heels clicking as he slowly descended the stairs, the gun never wavering from her chest. "The little widow. The loyal little maid. Did you really think you could play in our league, Marisol? Did you think because Rowan let you sleep in his house, you were one of us?"
"I don't want to be one of you, Victor," Marisol said, her voice steady, her eyes fixed on the barrel of the gun.
"I want to see you in a cage. I want to see the man who killed my husband, the man who poisoned his own brother, spend the rest of his life in a concrete box where no one can hear him scream."
Victor let out a loud, hysterical laugh, stopping three steps from the bottom of the staircase. He raised the gun, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"A concrete box?" Victor smiled, his gold tooth catching the dim light of the emergency bulbs. "I don't think so, sweetheart. Because by tomorrow morning, Rowan will be dead of a sudden, tragic relapse. And you... you will be found in the bay, a suicide note in your pocket admitting to the theft of his capital."
He took the last step, his face inches from hers.
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"Goodbye, Marisol," Victor whispered.
But before his finger could make the final, fatal movement, the heavy glass doors of the front entrance were shattered into a million glittering pieces.
