Chapter 161 - The Threshold of Vance Manor
"She rigged the boathouse," Emma breathed, lowering the binoculars, the horror washing over her in a suffocating wave. "If we breached the canal, the entire foundation would have collapsed into the lake."
"She didn't rig it to kill us," Julian said, his eyes scanning the glittering granite facade of the main lodge above. "She rigged it to signal our arrival. The moment that charge blows, the automated security lockdown seals every exit in Vance Manor, trapping whoever is inside the perimeter under armed guard until the private transport arrives."
"Then where is Arthur?"
"Arthur isn't in the water," Julian said, pointing toward the third-floor library—a massive timber-framed room projecting out over the cliffside, its vaulted glass windows glowing with the warm, amber light of an open hearth.
Standing inside the glass, perfectly visible against the firelight, stood Arthur. He was seated in a high-backed leather armchair, his hands free, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch. Standing beside him, dressed in an emerald-green silk evening gown with a silver mink stole draped across her shoulders, was Eleanor Vance.
She was laughing, her hand resting affectionately on Arthur’s shoulder.
Emma felt the world tilt beneath her skates. The black ice seemed to vanish into a bottomless, spinning abyss.
"Arthur..." Emma choked out, the betrayal hitting her with the force of a high-speed collision. "He didn't get shot. He wasn't captured."
"Arthur has been on Eleanor’s payroll since the day your father died," Julian said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion—the flat, terrifying tone of a man who had already processed the execution of a traitor. "The ambush at Mile Marker 28 was theater. The car crash was theater. He was Eleanor’s shepherd, Emma. He was hired to drive you out of the city, isolate you from any legitimate authorities, and guide you straight to the slaughterhouse."
As if responding to an unseen cue, Eleanor Vance slowly turned her head toward the dark expanse of the frozen lake.
She walked to the massive glass window, holding her glass aloft in a mocking, silent toast toward the shadows where they stood hidden behind the ice boulders.
Beside her, Arthur stood up, walked to the glass, and pulled a remote detonator from his coat pocket.
Then, the exterior floodlights on the roof of the manor flickered once, twice, and pivoted violently downward—not toward the boathouse, but locking their blinding, million-candlepower beams directly onto the ice boulder where Emma, Julian, and Maya were crouching.
The ice around them exploded with light, turning the transparent surface beneath their skates into a glowing stage of emerald and diamond.
Across the lake, the estate’s public address speakers crackled to life, Eleanor’s voice echoing off the frozen mountain ridges with terrifying, theatrical amusement:
"Happy New Year, Emma dear," Eleanor’s voice echoed across the frozen miles. "You have sixty seconds to slide Maya across the ice, or Arthur presses the button that blows Julian’s boots straight into the mud."
May you like
Emma looked down at the ice between her feet.
Beneath the clear black surface, ten inches down within the frozen water, a small red LED light was blinking steadily directly beneath Julian’s skates.
