Chapter 12 - The Dawn Before the Final Stand
At 3:15 in the morning, the perimeter lights suddenly clicked off.
The entire lake house went pitch black.
I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand was dead.
The power had been cut from the main transformer down by the county road.
I slipped out of bed, reached into the closet for the Remington shotgun, and loaded two 12-gauge shells into the chamber with a quiet, practiced click.
I tiptoed into the hallway. Paige was already standing outside Josie’s bedroom door, holding a heavy brass candlestick, her face white in the gloom.
"Uncle Gerald," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Deputy Miller’s cruiser isn't at the gate. The blue lights are gone."
I crept toward the great room’s bay windows and peered through the darkness toward the entrance.
Deputy Miller’s cruiser was indeed gone. But idling silently in the center of my driveway was a sleek, dark luxury sedan with its running lights extinguished.
The front doors of the car opened. Two figures in dark suits stepped out onto the gravel. One of them carried an aluminum briefcase; the other held an iPad glowing faintly in the mist.
They didn't break the gate. They didn't pry the hinges.
The driver walked up to the keypad, pressed a magnetic device against the housing, and the heavy wrought-iron gates swung open smoothly, without a sound.
My phone on the kitchen counter vibrated on the granite slab.
It was a text from an unknown, encrypted number.
I picked it up with a shaking hand and read the glowing green letters:
May you like
*`Mr. Vance. Victor Crane didn't own the note on your house. We did. Marcus Bradley didn't quit his job—he was our asset procurement manager. We are not here to auction your dock. We are here to show you the original 1994 deed signed by your late wife, Dorothy Vance, pledging this parcel as sovereign collateral before you ever built this house. Look at the signature, Gerald. It isn't a forgery.`*
Downstairs, the heavy oak front door groaned as a physical brass key—a duplicate of Dorothy’s anchor key—turned slowly inside the deadbolt.
