Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Long Island
The Sterling summer house in Long Island was an architectural masterpiece of glass and timber built on a cliff overlooking the roaring Atlantic Ocean.
It was late afternoon when Arthur’s armored Maybach pulled up the winding gravel driveway. The house had been locked up for two years; salt air had slightly rusted the iron gates, and wild sea grass had grown tall around the stone porch.
Marcus and two security guards stepped out first, clearing the perimeter before giving Arthur the clear signal.
Arthur opened the door for me and Bella.
As we stepped onto the porch, Arthur stopped at the front door, his hand hovering over the brass handle. He was visibly tense, his shoulders rigid as memories swept over him.
I reached out and gently squeezed his arm. “We’re right here with you, Arthur.”
Arthur looked at me, took a deep breath, and turned the key.
The door opened to a spacious, modern living room overlooking the ocean. Sheets covered the furniture, and thin dust motes danced in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Bella,” Arthur said softly, kneeling down to his daughter. “Why don't you stay with Marcus in the sunroom? Sarah and I will be right upstairs in the study.”
Bella nodded bravely. “Okay, Daddy.”
Arthur led me up the floating wooden staircase to the second-floor master study. The room smelled of old paper and leather. Behind a painting of a coastal storm on the wall was a heavy steel wall safe.
Arthur walked over, typed in a six-digit combination, and turned the wheel.
The safe door clicked open.
Inside were legal documents, old family photo albums, and a small black leather journal with Clara’s initials embossed in gold on the cover.
Arthur pulled the journal out, his fingers tracing his late wife’s handwriting on the first page.
“This is it,” Arthur whispered. “Clara’s diary detailing the financial irregularities she discovered before her crash.”
Suddenly, a quiet click echoed from the doorway behind us.
Arthur spun around instantly, pulling me behind him.
Standing in the doorway was a woman wearing a heavy dark trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. She held a heavy suppressed pistol pointed directly at Arthur’s chest.
She pulled off her hat, revealing sharp, bitter features and manicured silver hair.
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It was Eleanor Vance—Senator Vance’s wife and Vanessa’s mother.
“Hello, Arthur,” Eleanor purred, her voice dripping with poison. “You didn't think the Vance family was out of options, did you?”
