Chapter 4 - The Intruder in the DarkThe footsteps stopped just outside the tasting room door.
“Vance!” a voice called out through the gloom—sharp, authoritative, and carrying the unmistakable edge of municipal panic. “Vance, put the weapon down and step away from the wall!”
Nathan didn't move. He kept his flashlight trained on the doorway.
A figure stepped out of the shadows of the service corridor, flashlight beam cutting through the dust. It was Detective Whitaker Doyle. His trench coat was soaked with rain, his service weapon drawn and held at a low, professional ready.
Doyle stopped when he saw Nero standing like a black mountain in the doorway, his white teeth bared in a silent snarl.
“Call off the dog, Vance,” Doyle warned, his eyes darting from Nero’s massive jaws to the gun in Nathan’s hand. “You’re standing inside a crime scene.”
“Detective,” Nathan said, his voice dangerously calm. “You make a habit of breaking and entering private property without a warrant?”
“I saw your car lights, and the front door was unlocked,” Doyle snapped, stepping cautiously into the tasting room, keeping his distance from the mastiff. “Besides, this isn't private property yet. The deed won't clear probate until Monday. Right now, you’re just a trespasser tampering with evidence in an active federal and state investigation.”
Nathan lowered his gun just an inch, but his eyes never left the detective. “What evidence, Doyle? The case was closed in eleven days. The widow died. The husband jumped off the cliff.”
“That’s what they wanted you to think,” Doyle said, walking slowly toward the back wall where Nathan had scraped away the caulk. The detective shined his light along the vertical seam in the wood paneling. “Julian Ostrander wasn't just a shipping magnate. He was the primary financial cleaner for half the syndicates operating out of Boston and Providence—including your father’s old outfit.”
Nathan’s jaw tightened. “I know who my father did business with.”
“Then you know Ostrander was skimming from everyone,” Doyle continued, his voice dropping. “In September 2019, Ostrander realized his partners were coming for him. He staged a fire in the guesthouse, faked his wife’s death, and walled himself inside his own panic room with sixty million dollars in bearer bonds and untraceable gold bullion.”
Doyle pointed his flashlight at the floor.
“And whoever helped him build this wall didn't let him walk out alive.”
Nero suddenly let out a sharp bark—his first vocal sound in six years.
The dog lunged forward, not toward Doyle, but against the base of the newly built cedar wall, slamming his massive shoulder into the wood with a deafening crash.
Crack.
May you like
The upper corner of the cedar paneling splintered outward, revealing a dark, sickening void behind the concrete.
A wave of air rushed out from the cavity—an air so foul, so deeply tainted with the smell of death and sealed decay, that both Nathan and Doyle instinctively stepped back, covering their noses.
Related Stories
