Chapter 7 - The Trial in the Hay
The main doors of the barn groaned as they were pushed open from the outside. Arthur Vance stepped into the dust, his security guards spreading out behind him like shadows.
“Lawrence,” Arthur said, his voice echoing through the rafters. “I know you’re in here. You always did have a dramatic streak.”
Lawrence didn't answer. He kept his eyes fixed on Lily, who was hiding behind a bale of old straw in the loft directly above his head. He gave her a tiny, imperceptible shake of his head—a command to stay silent.
Arthur walked across the dirt floor, his shoes clicking against the stones until he stood just three feet from his brother. He looked down at the ruined suit, the blood-stained handkerchief, and the pale, unmoving legs pinned beneath the timber.
“Look at you,” Arthur said, a low, cruel laugh escaping his throat. “The great Lawrence Vance. Chairman of the board. Dictating terms to the family from your tower in Columbus. And now you’re dying in the dirt like a stray dog.”
“Arthur...” Lawrence managed to say, his voice a pathetic rattle. “The company... it’s not yours to sell.”
“It is by nine o'clock this morning,” Arthur said, kneeling down beside him. He reached into Lawrence’s inside pocket, pulling out his leather wallet and flipping through the cards. He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Where is the key, Lawrence? The key to Box 412.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Lawrence whispered.
Arthur grabbed Lawrence by the collar of his ruined jacket, shaking him violently. “Don't lie to me! The bank security called my line ten minutes ago. Someone cleared the box. A child. A little girl with no shoes.”
He stood up, looking around the dark interior of the barn, his eyes scanning the hayloft.
“She’s in here, isn't she?” Arthur shouted. “Search the loft! Find the girl and find that drive!”
Two security guards started toward the wooden ladder leading up to the hayloft.
Lily gripped the heavy flash drive in her hand. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it would break her ribs. She looked at the old tractor parked beneath the loft floor—it was a rusted piece of iron from the fifties, its massive steel exhaust pipe pointing straight up toward the rafters.
Beside her was a heavy iron pitchfork, its wooden handle rotted but its steel tines still sharp.
As the first guard’s hands appeared at the top of the ladder, Lily took the pitchfork and wedged it beneath a massive, five-hundred-pound bale of old alfalfa that had been sitting near the edge of the loft for thirty years. She leaned her entire seven-year-old body weight into the handle, using the beam as a fulcrum.
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“Hey, I see something up—”
The guard didn't finish his sentence. With a loud, dry rip, the massive bale of straw tipped over the edge, falling straight down onto the two guards at the bottom of the ladder. The timber cracked, the ladder shattered, and the men disappeared beneath a mountain of gray dust and heavy forage.
