Chapter 6 - The Trap Closes
Daniel sprang from his chair, the wood scraping harshly against the floorboards.
"You're losing your mind, Mercer!" Daniel barked, his voice dropping into a menacing snarl. "Sitting in this dark house for five years has rotted your brain. You’re a blind invalid! You couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag, let alone touch my accounts!"
I didn’t flinch. I turned my head directly toward the sound of his breathing, my unblinking eyes fixed on him with unnerving precision.
"Who said anything about fighting?" I asked quietly.
Before Daniel could lunge across the desk, the heavy study doors swung wide open. Two massive, clicking digital locks engaged simultaneously with a heavy thud.
Hannah stood by the wall-mounted security panel, her fingers resting calmly over the override switch.
"What is this?" Daniel shouted, spinning around toward the door. He reached inside his jacket for a shoulder holster. "Open this door right now, or I swear to God—"
"You won't shoot anyone, Daniel," a calm, chilling voice echoed from the doorway.
Step by measured step, a third person walked into the study.
I didn't need eyes to recognize the scent of antiseptic, expensive cologne, and calculated betrayal.
Dr. Vernon Hale.
Hale stepped inside, closing the door behind him. But he wasn't holding his medical bag. In his right hand, he held a silenced pistol, pointed straight at Daniel Cross’s chest.
Daniel froze, staring at the doctor in sheer disbelief. "Hale? Have you lost your mind? Shoot him!"
Hale let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Shoot him, Daniel? And ruin the golden goose? Grant owns eighty percent of the waterfront properties. If he dies intestate, his assets go into state probate, and our entire corporate structure collapses overnight."
I tilted my head, letting a cold smile touch my lips. "Ah. So the partnership is deeper than I thought. The doctor and the lieutenant. One blinds me, the other robs me."
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Hale turned his gaze toward me, his expression turning venomous. "You should have stayed in the dark, Grant. The drops were supposed to keep you docile for the rest of your natural life. How the hell did you figure it out?"
"A three-year-old girl with a five-dollar flashlight," I said smoothly. "Turns out, science is harder to fake when you stop trusting the quack holding the dropper."
