Searching the House
The marble foyer echoed my heels as I pushed through the double doors. Light streamed from the crystal chandelier, casting long shadows on the polished floor.
I headed straight for the study, where Warren kept his “personal files.” A massive oak desk stood beneath a portrait of the estate—its golden frame a reminder of his boast.
Behind a row of antique books, I found the hidden safe. The dial was dusty, the number sequence slightly worn.
My fingers trembled as I spun the dial, feeling the clicks reverberate in the silence. The lock surrendered with a soft click, revealing a stack of folders and a leather‑bound ledger.
Inside the ledger, cryptic entries—dates, amounts, names I didn’t recognize—were written in a hurried hand. Numbers that didn’t match the estate’s purchase price, but pointed to offshore accounts.
Just then, a soft click sounded behind me. A hidden camera, its lens peeking from a decorative vase, whirred to life, capturing Beverly’s earlier threats. The red recording light blinked.
Before I could process the weight of the evidence, the house shuddered. The chandelier flickered, and the lights died, plunging the room into black.
My breath hitched. The camera’s red eye stayed on, a faint glow in the darkness. A muffled voice slipped through the silence, whispering, “They’re coming for you.”
