Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT INTRUDERThe rain had stopped by midnight, leaving the estate wrapped in a thick, suffocating blanket of coastal fog. The mansion was dead silent, save for the grandfather clock in the main hall ticking away the seconds like a countdown.
Jasper was sitting in the dark of his study, a glass of amber whiskey untouched on the desk before him. He hadn't gone to bed. He had spent the evening reviewing old shipping manifests and property deeds from the past ten years, looking for financial anomalies. What he found made his stomach turn: millions of dollars had been funneled through dummy corporations registered in the Cayman Islands—all authorized by Conrad Vance's signature, countersigned by Harrison Concincaid under duress, or perhaps forged altogether.
Then, a sound cut through the silence.
Click.
It wasn't the house settling. It was the distinct sound of a brass doorknob turning in the hallway outside his study.
Jasper didn't reach for a gun; he rolled silently off his chair, staying low to the ground as he slid toward the heavy mahogany door. He pulled it open an inch.
A figure in dark clothing was slipping down the corridor toward the west wing. The silhouette was lithe, moving with practiced, silent stealth—not the lumbering gait of an elderly servant or the polished stride of Conrad Vance.
Jasper stepped out into the hallway, moving like a shadow behind the intruder. The figure slipped through the door leading down to the sub-basement.
Jasper followed.
The basement door was left slightly ajar. A faint, dancing orange glow flickered up the stone staircase, accompanied by the smell of burning oil.
What the hell is Conrad playing at? Jasper thought.
He crept down the stone steps, keeping his weight on the outer edges to avoid the creaky wooden planks. When he reached the bottom, the sight that met his eyes made his blood freeze.
The false wall had been breached. A sledgehammer lay discarded on the stone floor. The outer layer of modern epoxy and brick had been smashed open, revealing a dark, recessed alcove behind it—a hidden chamber that didn't exist on the original architectural blueprints of the mansion.
And standing inside the alcove, holding a flickering kerosene lantern, was a man Jasper thought he would never see again.
Garrett Concincaid.
Jasper stopped dead in his tracks, the air evacuating his lungs as if he had been struck by a physical blow.
Garrett looked older, his face gaunt, his clothes caked in dust and grime, a dark bruise staining his temple. But there was no mistaking the sharp jawline, the piercing eyes, the unmistakable presence of his older brother.
The man reported dead in a fiery car crash six months ago.
Garrett turned, holding the lantern high, and saw Jasper standing in the shadows of the doorway.
May you like
For a long moment, neither man spoke. The only sound was the heavy, ragged breathing of Brutus the mastiff, who was now sitting quietly beside Garrett, its bloody paws resting on the stone floor.
"You took your sweet time coming back, little brother," Garrett rasped, his voice cracked from disuse. "I told you to leave ten years ago... but it looks like you walked right back into the trap."
