Chapter 6 - THE LOCKED DOORBefore the full horror of the note could register in Katherine’s mind, a loud, heavy CLANG echoed from behind them.
Robert spun around just in time to see the front door slam shut, followed by the heavy thud of an industrial deadbolt sliding into place from the outside.
"Hey! Open this door!" Robert roared, throwing his weight against the solid oak panels. The wood didn't even splinter; it was reinforced with steel plates.
From outside, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the porch rafters.
Then came the voice of Frank, amplified through a megaphone resting on the front deck, mocking them with chilling casualness.
"Nice try, Robert, Grace, and little Katherine," Frank’s amplified voice rasped across the clearing, bouncing off the surrounding timber. "You really thought Caleb was the mastermind? Please. Caleb is just a weak-willed boy who couldn't handle a guilty conscience. But the syndicate—the people who funded his construction contracts and covered up Beatrice’s little 'accident' four years ago—we don't leave loose ends."
Grace rushed to the living room window, hammering on the glass with her fists. "Frank! You cowardly bastard! Let us out of here! That's my son's wife! That's your own family!"
"Family is just a liability, Grace," Frank’s voice replied smoothly through the speaker. "And right now, this cabin is scheduled for a complete structural remodel. A faulty gas line, an old pilot light, and poof—another tragic domestic accident in the Oakhaven Woods. No witnesses, no evidence, and the insurance payout clears our offshore accounts by Monday morning."
Katherine didn't scream. She didn't cry. The paralysis that had gripped her on her wedding night was completely gone, burned away by pure, unadulterated fury.
She turned around, scanning the rustic cabin with the sharp, analytical eyes of someone who refused to die in a cage built by cowards.
"Robert, help me move this bookshelf!" Katherine commanded, her voice ringing with absolute authority.
May you like
"What are you doing?" Robert asked, bewildered.
"Frank mentioned a structural remodel," Katherine said, pulling back a canvas drop cloth to reveal a heavy, bolted wooden floor hatch hidden beneath the braided rug. "Old cabins built in the thirties don't just have basements—they have smugglers' tunnels leading down to the creek bed. And I’ll be damned if I let your brother burn us alive in our Sunday best."
