Chapter 4 - THE MAN IN THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAYI had spent eleven years in the military.
I'd worked through emergency evacuations, combat-zone logistics failures, and situations where a single bad decision could cost lives.
But nothing prepared me for the sound of my sister screaming inside the house where I'd grown up.
I reached the staircase before Thomas.
"Chloe!"
Another scream.
Then something shattered.
I took the stairs two at a time.
Halfway up, Brandon appeared at the landing, looking disoriented.
"What's happening?"
"Where's Chloe?"
"The library, I think."
I ran past him.
The upstairs corridor was dark except for the soft glow of Christmas lights wrapped around the banister.
The library door stood open.
Inside, a man wearing a gray coat was struggling with Chloe.
She had grabbed his sleeve while he tried to pull away.
"Let go of me!" she screamed.
He shoved her into a bookshelf.
I moved before I had time to think.
"Stop!"
The man turned.
His face was partly hidden beneath a black knit cap.
He was younger than I'd expected, perhaps thirty-five.
And he was holding something.
A red notebook.
"Put it down," I ordered.
He looked at my uniform.
Then at the hallway behind me.
"Move."
"No."
He reached inside his coat.
I moved sideways, putting the heavy reading table between us.
"Don't," I warned.
He hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Chloe scrambled behind the sofa, and I hit the library's emergency alarm button mounted beside the door.
A shrill siren erupted throughout the mansion.
The man swore.
Then he turned and ran toward the balcony doors.
I followed far enough to see him disappear onto the terrace.
By the time I reached the railing, he was climbing down the service stairs toward the gardens.
"Security!" I shouted.
Outside, headlights swept across the snow.
Two guards ran from the gatehouse.
The intruder vaulted a low wall.
And vanished into the darkness.
I didn't chase him.
Chloe was crying behind me, and for once, catching someone mattered less than making sure my sister was safe.
I returned to the library.
She sat against the sofa, clutching her wrist.
"Are you hurt?"
"I don't know."
I knelt beside her.
"Look at me. Can you move your fingers?"
She nodded shakily.
"Good. Keep breathing."
She stared at me.
For a moment, she looked like the little girl who used to sneak into my bedroom during thunderstorms.
"Abby?"
"Yeah?"
"I thought he was going to kill me."
Something in my chest twisted.
I took her hand.
"You're okay. I'm here."
She began crying harder.
Downstairs, the alarm continued.
Then Diane burst through the doorway.
"Chloe!"
She rushed to her daughter.
"Oh, my baby. What happened?"
Chloe pointed toward the terrace.
"A man came in. He was looking for something."
Diane went completely still.
"What?"
"He opened the grandfather clock."
I watched Diane's face.
She didn't look surprised.
She looked horrified.
"Did he take anything?" she demanded.
Chloe stared at her.
"Mom, he pushed me!"
But Diane wasn't listening.
She was staring at the clock.
Its wooden door hung open.
The pendulum had been removed.
And behind it, a small compartment stood empty.
Thomas entered with a security guard.
"Police are on their way," he announced.
Diane turned sharply.
"Police? Absolutely not. We don't need a scandal!"
"A man assaulted your daughter," I said.
"This is a private family matter."
I stood.
"No. It's a crime."
She glared at me.
"You've been home for one hour and already turned this house into a circus."
"Someone broke into the library looking for a notebook."
Diane's expression changed.
"What notebook?"
I stepped closer.
"The red one Dad hid inside that clock."
For half a second, she forgot to breathe.
Then she recovered.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then why did you ask whether the intruder took anything before asking whether Chloe was injured?"
Her eyes flashed.
"How dare you?"
But Chloe was staring at her mother now.
And for the first time, there was something in that stare besides admiration.
There was doubt.
By the time the police arrived, the remaining guests had gathered in the front hall.
Some had already left.
Others were whispering into phones.
A detective named Elena Morales took our statements.
She was in her early forties, with dark hair pulled into a bun and a sharp, observant expression.
She listened carefully as I described the intruder.
Then she asked a question that made my stomach drop.
"Major Whitmore, do you know a man named Victor Langford?"
Thomas and I exchanged glances.
"Why?"
Morales removed a photograph.
It showed Victor standing beside a black SUV.
"We've been investigating a series of financial crimes involving companies connected to Mr. Langford."
I looked at the photograph.
"Was he involved in tonight's break-in?"
"We don't know."
"But you suspect him."
She studied my face.
"Let's say your father's name has appeared in our investigation more than once."
Thomas stepped forward.
"Detective, Arthur Whitmore provided records to federal investigators shortly before his death."
Morales nodded.
"I'm aware."
I stared at both of them.
"Wait. Dad was working with investigators?"
Thomas looked uncomfortable.
"Yes."
"And neither of you thought I should know?"
Morales answered first.
"Your father requested that you not be contacted while deployed. He was concerned that you could become a target."
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the night had become so unbelievable that I couldn't find another response.
"So my father dies, I come home, discover I'm the beneficiary of a massive trust, find out my biological parents may have been murdered, and now someone breaks into our house looking for evidence?"
Morales gave me a sympathetic look.
"That's a fair summary."
"Wonderful."
Then Thomas's phone rang.
He checked the screen.
And his expression changed.
"Excuse me."
He walked into the hallway.
I watched him speak quietly for several seconds.
When he returned, his face was pale.
"Abigail, there's something you need to see."
He handed me his phone.
An email had arrived from Whitmore Development's corporate compliance office.
The subject line read:
EMERGENCY BOARD MEETING — 8:00 A.M.
Beneath it was an attached resolution.
I opened it.
My name appeared on the second page.
The resolution proposed removing all individuals associated with the Whitmore Legacy Trust from future corporate governance.
The motion had been introduced by Brandon Whitmore.
And supported by an outside investor.
Victor Langford.
I looked toward the staircase.
My brother stood beside Diane, whispering urgently.
He caught me watching.
And for the first time all evening, he didn't look arrogant.
He looked trapped.
I walked toward him.
"Brandon."
He straightened.
"What?"
"Did you authorize a meeting to strip the trust of its voting rights?"
The room went silent.
Diane stepped between us.
"Not now."
I ignored her.
"Answer me."
Brandon swallowed.
"You don't understand how business works."
"Then explain it."
He glanced toward Thomas.
"That trust structure is outdated. Dad created it when he was emotional. We're trying to protect the company."
"From what?"
"From inexperienced people making decisions."
I almost smiled.
"Inexperienced people like me?"
He said nothing.
I stepped closer.
"Or people who might discover what you've been doing?"
His face flushed.
"You don't know anything!"
"Then tell me."
For one terrible moment, I thought he might hit me.
Instead, he leaned close.
"There's a reason Dad never told you about that trust."
My heart began pounding.
"What reason?"
Brandon looked toward Diane.
She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Too late.
I'd seen it.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He hesitated.
Then whispered:
"Because Dad found out where the money originally came from."
Before I could ask another question, his phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
I saw the name on the screen.
VICTOR L.
Brandon declined the call.
Seconds later, my own phone vibrated.
Another message from the unknown number.
THE NOTEBOOK IS GONE, BUT THE ORIGINAL EVIDENCE ISN'T. ASK YOUR BROTHER ABOUT ACCOUNT 0417.
I looked up.
Brandon was already staring at me.
May you like
And the expression on his face told me one thing.
He knew exactly what that number meant.
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