Chapter 3 - The Confrontation at the River
The rain began to fall in heavy, blinding sheets as Arthur walked slowly across the empty parking lot toward Miller’s car. His face was weathered, deeply lined with age, but his eyes were hard, devoid of the grandfatherly warmth he had faked for six years.
Miller reached into his jacket and pulled out his service revolver, laying it across his lap. "Stay in the car, Clara."
"No," I said, pushing the passenger door open and stepping out into the freezing rain.
"Clara!" Miller called out, but I was already walking toward the man who had torn my world to shreds.
Arthur stopped ten feet away, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at me, then down at the binder I held tightly against my chest.
"You were always too much like your mother, Clara," Arthur said, his voice flat, unaffected by the storm surrounding us. "Curious. Relentless. You couldn't just let the flowers grow, could you?"
"You sold her," I spat, the word burning my throat like acid. "You sold your six-year-old granddaughter to your brother! How could you?!"
Arthur’s jaw tightened. A flash of dark, defensive anger crossed his features. "You don't understand the scope of what Harold was building! I had debts, yes, but this wasn't just about money! Harold’s research into rare pediatric cellular regeneration is worth billions! Lily wasn't killed, Clara. She was useful!"
"Useful?!" I screamed, stepping closer, ignoring Miller who had stepped out of the car with his gun drawn. "She was a baby! She was Patrick’s twin! He has spent six years believing he killed her! He woke up every night screaming because of you!"
Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "Patrick survived. He grew up normal. Lily was always the fragile one. Harold’s treatments stabilized her condition. She has been cared for!"
"Where is she, Arthur?" Miller demanded, raising his revolver, aiming it directly at my father’s chest. "Give up the location now, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet through you right here."
Arthur laughed—a dry, bitter sound that was swallowed by the roar of the thunder above. "Do you really think I’m working alone, Thomas? Look around you."
From the shadows of the surrounding trees, three dark SUVs pulled into the parking lot, blocking every exit. Men in black tactical gear stepped out, armed with suppressed automatic rifles.
"Drop the weapon, Detective," one of the contractors commanded through a megaphone.
Miller didn't drop the gun, but he shifted his body to shield me. "Arthur, you won't get away with this. The evidence is already on a secure server."
"It doesn't matter," Arthur said coldly. "Harold’s trial phase ends tonight. The facility at Blackwood Lake is being dismantled as we speak. All subjects, all data, all witnesses are being scrubbed."
My heart stopped. Scrubbed.
"You're going to kill her?" I gasped, horror choking the air from my lungs. "After everything, you're going to let them kill her?!"
"I don't control Harold anymore," Arthur admitted, a tiny flicker of regret finally breaking through his stoic mask. "He’s gone beyond what we agreed to. He took the child, he got his results, and now he’s destroying the evidence to protect the parent company. I came to your house last night to leave that box, Clara! I left the key!"
I stared at him, stunned. "You... you cut down the sunflowers?"
"I couldn't come to you directly," Arthur said, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of the rain. "Harold’s men monitor my phone, my house, my bank accounts. Cutting those damn flowers was the only way to get you to open Eleanor’s locker! I wanted you to find the key! I wanted you to save her before Harold burns the site to the ground!"
"Why didn't you go to the police six years ago?!" I roared.
"Because I was a coward!" Arthur yelled back, tears finally mixing with the rain on his cheeks. "Because I was terrified of going to prison! But I won't let him murder her! She’s my blood, Clara!"
The contractor with the megaphone stepped forward. "Mr. Vance! Step away from them! Dr. Vance gave explicit orders—no survivors at the courthouse!"
Arthur turned to look at the contractor, then looked back at me. In that split second, the old man seemed to make the first honorable choice of his miserable life.
He raised his silver cane and jammed it viciously into the eye of the nearest contractor standing beside him.
"Run, Clara!" Arthur screamed.
Chaos erupted. The contractor fired his weapon, the deafening burst of gunfire echoing through the lot. Arthur fell to his knees, struck in the chest.
Miller returned fire, dropping two of the armed men with precise shots, grabbing my arm and yanking me back into the sedan.
"Get down!" Miller roared, slamming the car into reverse.
Tires screeched as Miller backed the car at fifty miles an hour out of the parking lot, crashing through a wooden security barrier and plunging onto the main avenue just as a volley of bullets shattered our rear window.
I looked back through the ruined glass.
My father lay motionless on the wet asphalt under the glare of the streetlights, his silver cane resting in a pool of blood.
Miller accelerated onto the highway, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. "We have twenty minutes before those contractors track this car, Clara! Where is Patrick?"
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"He’s at my neighbor’s house," I sobbed, clutching the binder to my chest. "Thomas... my father said they are scrubbing the facility tonight! They're going to destroy everything!"
"Then we aren't waiting for reinforcement," Miller said, reaching into his glovebox and pulling out two extra magazines for his pistol. "We're going to Blackwood Lake right now."
