Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the East Wing
Night fell over Oakridge Manor. The thunderstorm outside raged with fierce intensity, dark rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Master Suite.
Inside, the room was warm, glowing with the fire crackling in the massive stone hearth. Lily, dressed in a soft silk nightgown provided by Lady Margaret, sat on the edge of the plush bed, eating warm soup from a silver bowl.
Clara sat beside her, gently stroking her dark, wavy hair.
"Is this my daddy's room, Mommy Clara?" Lily asked softly, her big green eyes looking up at the oil paintings hanging on the wall—portraits of Arthur Harrington smiling warmly beside a beautiful woman with auburn hair.
"Yes, my sweet girl," Clara whispered, her eyes shining with bittersweet tears. "Your daddy was a very good man."
A soft knock sounded at the door. Julian Vance stepped inside, holding a set of sealed medical envelopes. Behind him walked Dr. Elizabeth Vance, the chief medical officer appointed by the state court.
"The cheek swabs have been collected and processed using the state's rapid-sequence genetic sequencer," Dr. Elizabeth announced, setting her laptop on the writing desk.
Lady Margaret sat in a velvet armchair near the fire, her hands tightly folded over her chest. "Tell us, Elizabeth. Is she Arthur’s child?"
Dr. Elizabeth opened the file, displaying a genetic comparison chart on her screen. "The DNA match between Lily and the reference sample recovered from Lord Arthur Harrington’s medical records is 99.98 percent. There is absolute zero scientific doubt. She is Beatrice Harrington."
Lady Margaret let out a long, shuddering breath, burying her face in her hands as silent tears of joy streamed down her weathered cheeks. "My granddaughter... my sweet little girl."
"However," Julian’s voice turned grim, stepping forward into the firelight. "We have a critical problem."
Clara looked up, alarmed. "What is it?"
"The brake line analysis from Arthur’s car crash four years ago was officially classified as a mechanical failure," Julian explained, pulling a black folder from his coat. "But three hours ago, my investigators re-examined the police evidence locker under a fresh warrant. The brake lines weren't worn out. They were severed with a hydraulic cutter."
Lady Margaret gasped, her hand flying to her heart. "Arthur was murdered..."
"Yes," Julian said coldly. "And the man who ordered that hit was the same man who stood to inherit forty percent of the estate upon Arthur's death—Richard Harrington."
Suddenly, the lights throughout the entire west wing flickered twice and plunged into pitch-black darkness.
The hum of the estate's central generator failed to turn on. Outside the suite, heavy, muffled footsteps echoed down the carpeted hallway.
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"Stay down!" Julian commanded, pulling a black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and stepping in front of the bed.
The heavy oak door of the suite was kicked inward with a violent crash.
