Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE ON OAK CREEK
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the dark trees surrounding 1420 Oak Creek Drive.
Detective Marcus Thorne kicked away the sharp wooden splinters of the back patio door, stepped through the broken frame, and raised his heavy flashlight into the thick, dusty gloom of the abandoned lake house.
The house smelled of mold, dried plaster, and dead air.
Grant had kept the property under corporate ownership, refusing to rent it out or sell it, leaving it frozen in time like a tomb. White canvas sheets covered the grand furniture in the living room like ghosts sitting in silence.
Thorne moved quickly, his boots crunching on broken glass, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness toward the grand central staircase.
He stopped at the bottom step.
There, faded into the deep grain of the oak flooring, was the dark, brownish stain where Daniel Carter’s head had struck the bottom riser seven years ago.
"Thorne!" Aaron’s voice shouted through the speakerphone strapped to Thorne’s chest pocket. "It’s 6:46! You have four minutes before the warden has to begin moving Evelyn to the execution chamber!"
"I’m at the staircase," Thorne grunted, taking the steps three at a time. "Where is the study entrance?"
"Second floor, end of the hall on the left!" I called out over the phone, my voice hysterical with fear. "The door is solid oak with an iron rim! Grant put a heavy deadbolt on it!"
Thorne reached the top of the landing and ran down the narrow corridor. He stopped in front of the master study.
The door was heavy, reinforced, and locked tight. A thick brass plate covered the keyhole.
Thorne didn't waste time trying to pick it. He set his feet, swung his heavy-duty crowbar with all the weight of his six-foot-two frame, and jammed the steel wedge into the seam between the door frame and the lock.
CRACK.
Splintered oak flew into the air.
Thorne pulled back and rammed his shoulder against the wood. The lock gave way with a violent screech of tearing metal, and the heavy door burst open, crashing against the interior wall.
Dust poured out of the room in a thick, choking cloud.
Thorne stepped inside, sweeping his flashlight across the room.
The study had been completely cleared of furniture except for a single built-in mahogany desk and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf along the far wall. The air was suffocatingly hot.
"I’m in," Thorne panted into his chest mic. "Where’s the chute, Lily?"
"Behind the third section of the bookshelf!" I yelled back. "There’s a small brass latch near the bottom shelf! Pull it!"
Thorne dropped to his knees, shining his light along the bottom of the dark wood shelves. He found the small brass lever, caked in cobwebs, and yanked it upward.
With a heavy, mechanical click, the central section of the bookshelf swung outward on hidden iron hinges, revealing a dark, narrow alcove cut directly into the brickwork of the house’s central chimney.
Inside the alcove sat a small, battered metal fire-safe and a dark canvas duffel bag.
Thorne reached in and grabbed the duffel bag.
He unzipped it.
His flashlight beam hit the contents.
Inside was a faded, dark blue silk scarf, stiffened with dark, dried blood that had turned black over seven years. Wrapped inside the folds of the scarf was a small digital audio recorder and a stack of blue-lined ledger books stamped with the official seal of Carter Maritime Shipping.
Thorne’s breath hitched in his throat.
"I have it," Thorne whispered, his hands trembling as he shone the light on the bloody silk. "I have the blue scarf, Bell. And the bloody poker marks match the pattern on the silk."
"Is there a recording?" Aaron yelled through the speaker.
Thorne pulled out the small digital voice recorder. The battery light was dead, but the memory card was still sealed inside the side slot. Next to it was a handwritten letter on Daniel Carter’s personal stationery, dated the morning of his death.
Thorne picked up the paper and read the first line under his breath:
May you like
“If you are reading this, Grant has realized I found the offshore embezzlement accounts in the Caymans. He threatened to frame Evelyn using her own scarf if I went to the federal prosecutor...”
"Bell," Thorne said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he sprinted out of the room and back toward his car. "I’m transmitting high-resolution photos of Daniel’s handwritten confession and the bloody scarf to your laptop right now via cellular uplink. Get Judge Harrison on the line!"
