Chapter 11 - The Dark of Night
Within forty-five minutes, the mansion was completely cleared.
Deputies had escorted the terrified, whispering partygoers down the driveway. Tow trucks were lined up along the road, hauling away illegally parked sports cars. Tyler had fled in his girlfriend’s car, sobbing hysterically as his livestream comments flooded with relentless mockery: *BRO GOT EVICTED ON LIVE*, *TRUST FUND CHRONICLES CANCELED*, *GRANDMA TOOK THE WHOLE HOUSE*.
Richard had been removed from the premises after attempting to physically break into the study to find the deed copies. The deputies had given him a strict formal trespass warning: return, and he would be arrested on sight.
By 2:00 AM, the mansion fell into a silence heavier than any I had ever known.
Arthur had offered to stay, but I insisted on being alone. I needed to breathe the air of my home without the stench of their greed. Mrs. Gable was due back at dawn, and two off-duty deputies were stationed in a cruiser at the bottom of the long driveway near the main gate.
I walked through the empty, trashed ballroom, picking up discarded napkins and broken glass with my dustpan. My joints ached, but for the first time in ten years, my soul felt unshackled.
Around 3:15 AM, the power suddenly went out.
The chandelier above my head flickered twice and died. The gentle hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen ceased. The security keypad on the wall emitted a single, sharp beep before going dark.
I stopped in the middle of the hallway, holding a battery-operated flashlight I kept in the drawer.
*It’s just a tripped circuit breaker,* I told myself. *The party’s sound systems must have overloaded the main breaker box in the cellar.*
I turned on the flashlight, its yellow beam cutting through the thick darkness of the corridor.
Then I heard it.
A soft, metallic click coming from the back terrace French doors.
Followed by the slow, deliberate creak of floorboards in the conservatory.
The off-duty deputies were half a mile away at the front gate. The landline was dead because the base station had no power. My cell phone was sitting on the charging dock upstairs in my bedroom.
"Richard?" I called out, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling despite all my resolve.
No answer. Only the rhythmic, heavy sound of wet boots stepping onto the hardwood floor, moving steadily toward the study where Thomas’s safe was concealed behind the painting.
And then, a second set of footsteps joined the first from the opposite hallway.
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There wasn't just one person in the dark. There were two.
I turned my flashlight toward the archway—and the beam caught the reflection of a crowbar, raised high in the darkness.
