Chapter 8 - THE INTRUDER IN THE BASEMENTI froze, holding my breath. Грех would be an understatement; my heart hammered violently against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The footsteps stopped right outside the heavy oak door of the archive room.
The brass doorknob turned. Slowly. Squeaking slightly in the quiet air.
I quickly slipped the yellowed letter into my blazer pocket, sliding my hand into my handbag to grip my heavy metal keychain—not much of a weapon, but it was all I had.
The door pushed open.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, was not a burglar.
It was Elena.
She wasn't wearing her high-society evening gown or her sleek restaurant attire. She wore a dark tactical turtleneck, combat boots, and a cold, razor-sharp smile that didn't reach her dark eyes.
In her right hand, she held a suppressed semi-automatic pistol, the barrel pointed casually toward the floor.
“Well, well, well,” Elena said, her voice smooth and chillingly calm as she stepped inside and kicked the heavy door shut behind her. “The brilliant forensic accountant. Always digging where she doesn't belong.”
I stood up slowly behind the mahogany desk, keeping my posture straight despite the cold dread pooling in my stomach. “Elena. Or should I call you Mrs. Van Der Berg? Or maybe by your real last name—the one my father tried to scrub from the company history books twenty years ago?”
Elena paused, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her sharp features. “So you found the letter. I was wondering when you’d stumble across your grandfather’s little secrets.”
“You didn't just help Arthur scam my family,” I said, my voice steady, keeping her talking while my left hand blindly felt along the edge of the desk for the emergency silent alarm button wired directly to downtown police dispatch. “You engineered the entire thing from the start. The car accident two years ago—that wasn't a random fender bender on the highway, was it?”
Elena chuckled, a dark, humorless sound that echoed off the stone walls.
“Smart girl,” she purred, taking another step closer to the desk. “Your father thought he was the master puppeteer, but he was just a greedy, arrogant fool dancing to the tune I wrote. He ruined my father’s life, stole his patents, and drove him to an early grave. I didn't just want Crestwell Holdings back—I wanted your entire family to feel every ounce of the humiliation and ruin they inflicted on mine.”
My fingers brushed against the small plastic button underneath the desk.
I pressed it hard.
Click.
May you like
Elena’s eyes narrowed instantly. She saw the shift in my posture.
“Don't!” she snapped, snapping the pistol barrel up and leveling it straight at my chest. “Step away from the desk, Eleanor. Right now. Or this little audit is going to end with a very tragic, unexplained workplace accident.”
