Chapter 23 - Return to Hale Manor
The black Mercedes slid through the wrought-iron gates of Hale Manor just as dusk was beginning to swallow the coastline. The estate looked serene, bathed in the amber glow of the landscape lighting. Through the tall windows of the grand dining hall, I could see the warm flicker of the chandelier.
For the past month, the house had transformed from a cold, echoing fortress into a home. But tonight, as I stepped out of the car, a strange, prickling sensation crawled up the back of my neck—the old survival instinct of a man who had lived through a dozen ambushes.
I walked through the heavy front doors. The foyer was quiet, save for the faint sound of laughter drifting down from the second-floor landing.
Grace appeared at the top of the grand staircase, carrying a stack of fresh linens. When she saw me standing in the foyer, she paused, her expression shifting instantly from relaxed to alert.
"Julian," she said, descending the steps quickly. "You're back early. Did something happen at the docks?"
"A ghost from Raymond's past tried to log into our secondary servers," I said, stripping off my leather gloves and tossing them onto the entryway table. "Where are the girls?"
"In the sunroom with their coloring books," Grace replied, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "Though... we had a strange visitor about an hour before you arrived."
My entire body went rigid. "What kind of visitor?"
"A courier," Grace said, her hands tightening around the stack of linens. "He didn't come through the front gates. He climbed the sea-cliff trail behind the east garden. He left a package on the stone bench outside the conservatory and vanished into the fog before the perimeter sensors could even lock onto his thermal signature."
I didn't wait for her to finish. I turned on my heel and strode toward the back of the mansion, pulling my Sig Sauer from its shoulder holster as I moved.
"Julian, wait!" Grace called out, but I was already pushing open the heavy glass doors leading out to the rear terrace.
May you like
The cold ocean wind whipped across the stone patio, carrying the scent of salt and rain. On the stone bench near the edge of the cliff sat a small, black velvet box tied with a crimson silk ribbon.
No bomb. No detonator. Just a single, cold object waiting in the dark.
