Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT AT LAKE BRIAREvery instinct told me to go.
Maya told me that instinct was exactly what Thomas expected.
“You are not walking into a hostage situation.”
“He has my mother.”
“Which is why police handle it.”
“He’ll kill her.”
“He may kill you both if you go.”
Chief Cross agreed.
So did Samuel.
I hated them for approximately thirty seconds.
Then I hated myself for thinking panic was a strategy.
Police traced the call.
Thomas had used a disposable phone, but it connected through a tower covering Lake Briar.
That narrowed little.
The area included thirty square miles of forest, private roads, abandoned vacation homes, and the secret property police had already searched.
Cross believed Thomas wanted me at that house.
“Why?”
“Because he knows the layout.”
“So do you.”
“He may have prepared something after the search.”
Explosives.
Traps.
Evidence destruction.
Anything was possible.
Then Sienna walked into the command room.
“No.”
I hadn’t even heard her arrive.
“No what?”
“You’re not going.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
Apparently sibling intuition survived fraud investigations.
Cross’s phone rang.
Another disposable number.
He put it on speaker.
Thomas’s voice filled the room.
“Clara, you brought police.”
I felt ice move through me.
He could see us.
Cross signaled technicians.
“I’m here,” I said.
“I told you alone.”
“How would I get to you?”
“Your grandmother’s lake house.”
That surprised everyone.
Not Lake Briar.
Grandma’s lake house.
My inheritance.
The property Dad had accused me of stealing.
“You have thirty minutes.”
“I’m two hours away.”
“No, you aren’t.”
My blood chilled.
Thomas knew where I was.
“You’re twenty-six minutes away if you drive responsibly. Eighteen if you don’t.”
Cross pointed toward the ceiling.
Camera.
Somewhere near the building.
Thomas was watching the command post.
“We’ll talk,” I said. “Let my mother go.”
“No.”
“I’m the person you want.”
“You’re the person Richard should have controlled years ago.”
The line went dead.
Police located a camera attached to a utility pole across the street.
Thomas had prepared.
Maybe weeks earlier.
Grandma’s lake house sat beside Lake Connelly, surrounded by wooded property.
Four entrances.
Private dock.
Long gravel driveway.
Cross devised a plan.
I would drive my car there.
Officers would be hidden in the cargo area of an unmarked maintenance vehicle positioned nearby.
Snipers would establish distance cover.
I wore a transmitter beneath my shirt.
Maya hated all of it.
So did I.
But Thomas had specifically demanded me.
Hostage negotiators believed refusing entirely could escalate him.
At 10:41 p.m., I turned onto Grandma’s driveway.
The house appeared exactly as I remembered.
Stone walls.
Green shutters.
Porch light glowing.
Thomas had turned it on.
My hands shook as I parked.
“Clara, status.”
Cross’s voice came quietly through the concealed earpiece.
“Parked.”
“Do not enter until instructed.”
Then Mom screamed inside.
I opened the door.
“Clara, stop.”
I ran.
“Clara!”
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, furniture had been pushed aside.
Mom sat in a dining chair with her wrists tied.
Thomas stood behind her holding a handgun.
He smiled.
“You’ve always been impatient.”
I stopped.
“Let her go.”
Mom shook her head.
“Leave.”
Thomas pressed the gun against the side of her chair, not her body.
“Your mother and I have been discussing regret.”
“You’re surrounded.”
“I assumed so.”
“Then this ends badly for you.”
“All endings are bad, Clara. People just prefer the ones they survive.”
There was something unnervingly calm about him.
I saw no panic.
That meant he still believed he had leverage.
“What do you want?”
“The drive.”
“What drive?”
“The copy Eleanor gave you.”
“She didn’t give me anything.”
His smile faded slightly.
“Don’t insult me.”
“I didn’t know about half of Grandma’s evidence until this week.”
“That’s almost believable.”
“It’s true.”
He studied me.
Behind him, Mom’s hands moved.
Barely.
She was loosening something.
I kept Thomas looking at me.
“You killed Grandma.”
“No.”
“You told Dad how.”
“I described a possibility.”
“That’s called conspiracy.”
“Richard made his own decisions.”
“You recorded him so you could blame him later.”
“I recorded everyone.”
“Because you trust nobody.”
“Because everyone eventually betrays everyone.”
I almost laughed.
“You really believe that?”
“I’ve lived long enough to know it.”
“Grandma trusted Margaret.”
“Eleanor was sentimental.”
“She beat you.”
That landed.
His jaw tightened.
“She delayed me.”
“She saved Margaret. She hid the ledger. She protected the company shares. She recorded Dad. And she built the trust so the moment you framed me, you lost control.”
His eyes sharpened.
I continued.
“You didn’t beat her, Thomas. She beat you after she died.”
Mom suddenly pulled one hand free.
Thomas sensed movement.
He turned.
I lunged.
The gun fired.
The sound exploded through the room.
Mom screamed.
I hit Thomas’s shoulder.
We crashed into the dining table.
The weapon skidded across the floor.
Thomas struck me across the face.
Pain burst behind my eye.
Then the windows shattered.
“POLICE!”
Thomas grabbed my hair and yanked me backward.
I drove my elbow into his ribs.
Mom kicked the gun under a cabinet.
Thomas released me.
For one second he looked toward the kitchen.
Escape route.
Then the rear door burst open.
Detective Bell entered first.
“Hands!”
Thomas ran.
Bell tackled him before he reached the hallway.
Cross and two officers followed.
Within seconds, Thomas was face-down on Grandma’s hardwood floor with his wrists cuffed.
Mom was sobbing.
I crawled toward her.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The bullet had buried itself in the wall.
Police untied her.
Paramedics entered.
My cheek was swelling.
Mom’s wrists were bleeding.
But we were alive.
Thomas lay on the floor staring at me.
“This changes nothing.”
I looked down at him.
“It changes your address.”
Bell almost smiled.
Thomas didn’t.
As officers lifted him, he said, “Richard killed Eleanor.”
Mom answered before anyone else.
“No.”
Thomas looked at her.
“You were there after.”
“I know what happened.”
The room quieted.
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
Mom’s face collapsed.
“I remembered something.”
“What?”
“Richard called me before I arrived.”
“You told us.”
“No. Another call.”
“Mom.”
“I deleted it.”
Cross stepped closer.
“What did he say?”
She looked at me.
“Richard said Eleanor woke up.”
I stopped breathing.
After the morphine.
Grandma had awakened.
“What happened?”
“He panicked.”
“And?”
“He said Thomas told him to give her more.”
Thomas laughed from across the room.
“She’s lying.”
Mom shook her head.
“I heard you.”
Thomas went silent.
Mom continued.
“Richard hadn’t hung up properly. I could hear both of you.”
“What did Thomas say?”
Tears ran down her face.
“He said, ‘Finish it or she finishes us.’”
Cross looked at Thomas.
For the first time, Thomas lost his calm.
“You have no recording.”
Mom whispered, “Richard does.”
Everyone stared at her.
“What?”
“Richard recorded Thomas too.”
Of course he did.
Mutual destruction.
Mutual distrust.
“Where?”
Mom nodded toward the fireplace.
Grandma’s fireplace.
I followed her gaze.
“There?”
“Richard came back after the funeral. He hid something.”
Bell searched.
Behind a loose brick above the mantle was a small waterproof case.
Inside sat a digital recorder.
Dad’s insurance.
The final file was dated the night Grandma died.
12:14 a.m.
Grandma’s weak voice.
“Richard?”
Dad crying.
“I’m sorry.”
Grandma whispered, “Call Clara.”
Thomas interrupted.
“No calls.”
Grandma: “Thomas?”
Then a sound.
Movement.
Dad: “She’s awake.”
Thomas: “Then give her the rest.”
Dad: “No.”
Thomas: “Richard.”
Dad: “No.”
Thomas: “You already crossed the line. Now decide whether you’re going to prison for attempted murder or whether she dies naturally in her sleep.”
Dad sobbing.
Grandma whispered again.
“Clara.”
Then Thomas:
“Finish it.”
The file continued for seven minutes.
Nobody in the room moved.
When it ended, I realized I was holding my mother’s hand.
I released it.
Not because I hated her.
Because I wasn’t ready.
Maybe I never would be.
Outside, officers led Thomas toward a patrol vehicle.
No cameras.
No million viewers.
Just cold night air and handcuffs clicking closed.
And yet the story still wasn’t finished.
May you like
Because my father was alive.
And now I had to decide whether I wanted to hear him explain why my grandmother’s last word had been my name.
