Chapter 7 - Midnight at the Carriage House
The snow was falling heavier now, turning the rolling lawns of the estate into a white, featureless expanse.
Nathan and Emily moved silently through the shadow of the rose garden, keeping close to the stone wall to avoid the sweep of the security floodlights. The carriage house—a sprawling stone-and-timber structure dating back to the nineteenth century—sat at the far edge of the property, half-hidden by a dense grove of weeping willows.
A single chink of yellow light glowed from the second-story loft window.
“He’s in there,” Nathan whispered, crouching behind a frozen boxwood hedge.
Emily pulled her phone from her pocket. “I’m recording this. Audio and video. If he confesses, Vance won't be able to brush it under the rug.”
Nathan nodded, drawing a small, heavy brass key from his pocket—the master key to the estate outbuildings. He crept up to the heavy oak double doors of the carriage house, slid the key into the lock, and turned it with barely a whisper of sound.
The door clicked open.
Inside, the smell of motor oil, old leather, and woodsmoke hung thick in the air. A steep wooden staircase led up to the loft above.
They climbed the stairs one by one, their footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust coating the steps.
When they reached the top landing, the door to the loft was ajar. A warm, flickering light spilled out onto the floorboards, accompanied by the low hum of a classical radio station.
Nathan signaled for Emily to stay back, then kicked the door wide open with his boot.
“Spencer!” Nathan roared.
At the center of the loft, sitting at an old wooden workbench cluttered with chemistry glassware and brass instruments, Spencer Sterling jumped so violently he knocked over a glass beaker, shattering it against the concrete floor.
Spencer spun around. He was wearing an expensive cashmere sweater with the sleeves rolled up, his blond hair disheveled, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Nathan?” Spencer stammered, his eyes darting toward a small metal safe sitting open on the bench. “What… what are you doing here? The police are up at the main house!”
Nathan walked slowly across the loft, his fists clenched at his sides, stopping two feet from his half-brother.
“You know why I’m here, Spencer,” Nathan said, his voice dangerously low. “You killed her.”
Spencer let out a high-pitched, hysterical laugh, stepping back until his hips hit the workbench. “Killed who? Mother? She committed suicide! There’s a note! Vance told everyone—”
“Vance is an idiot,” Nathan interrupted, his voice rising. “And you’re a coward. You poisoned her tea because she found out you were skimming five million dollars from the Q3 accounts to pay off your gambling debts in Monaco.”
Spencer’s face went white. The laughter vanished, replaced by a twitching, panicked snarl. “She was going to cut me off! You both were! You sit up there in the big house playing billionaire while I have to beg for my allowance like a servant!”
Emily stepped into the loft, holding her phone up, the recording light blinking red in the darkness. “It’s all on camera, Spencer. Every word.”
Spencer’s eyes darted to Emily, then to the metal safe behind him. His hand flicked out like a striking snake, grabbing a heavy glass stirring rod from the bench and lunging toward Nathan with a feral scream.
“I’ll kill you too!” Spencer shrieked.
Nathan didn't flinch. As Spencer lunged, Nathan stepped inside the arc of the swing, grabbed his half-brother’s wrist with bone-crushing force, and twisted it upward until the glass rod clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Nathan slammed Spencer down against the wooden workbench, pinning him with his forearm across his throat.
“You’re finished, Spencer,” Nathan breathed, his face inches from his brother’s. “The police are outside. The confession is recorded. And you’re going to spend the rest of your natural life behind bars.”
Spencer choked beneath Nathan’s arm, his face turning purple, his hands clawing uselessly at the wood.
“Nathan… wait… please…” Spencer wheezed.
Nathan slowly relaxed his grip, stepping back and pulling out his own phone to dial Detective Vance.
Emily stood by the door, lowering her phone, a heavy sense of relief washing over her. The nightmare was over. The murderer was caught. The Sterling empire was safe.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move near the dark shadows of the loft stairs.
A figure stepped out from the landing.
It wasn't Detective Vance.
It was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper.
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And in her trembling, gloved hands, she wasn't holding a tray of tea.
She was holding a heavy, double-barreled hunting shotgun, pointed directly at Emily’s chest.
