Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Shadows
""Did they wipe them already?"" Julian asked, his voice low and dangerous.
""Not yet,"" Lin replied, glancing nervously down the darkened corridor. ""Mr. Henderson, the head of security, is waiting for your confirmation. He knows something is terribly wrong, sir.""
""Tell Henderson that if a single second of footage from today is altered or deleted, I will turn him over to the federal prosecutor along with my mother,"" Julian ordered coldly. ""Secure the hard drives. Hand them to Mark and no one else.""
Lin nodded vigorously and turned to leave, but Julian caught her arm gently. ""Lin. How long has my mother been bringing Clara those drinks?""
Lin’s eyes welled with tears. ""Ever since Lady Clara stopped walking, sir. About four months. Madame Eleanor said it was a special herbal tonic from Switzerland. Clara refused at first, but Madame told her... told her that if she didn't cooperate, you would suffer a tragic accident just like Master Victor did.""
The confession felt like a physical blow to Julian’s chest. Clara had been enduring slow murder in silence, all to shield him from an unseen predator.
""Pack your things, Lin,"" Julian said softly. ""A car will take you to a secure hotel downtown. You are not safe under this roof tonight.""
""And what about you, Master Julian?""
""I have business to finish,"" Julian replied grimly.
Leaving the estate through the private garage, Julian bypassed his regular chauffeur and took his discreet black sedan. Instead of taking the highway toward St. Jude’s Hospital, he turned toward the industrial coastline, where the cold ocean winds battered the dilapidated containers of the harbor.
The rain began to fall in heavy, deliberate sheets, blurring the neon signs of the shoreline. Within twenty minutes, the rotting wooden sign emerged through the darkness: Blackwood Docks.
Warehouse 4 stood isolated at the edge of the pier, its corrugated metal walls rust-eaten and dark. Julian pulled up several hundred meters away, cut the headlights, and reached into the glove compartment. He withdrew a compact semi-automatic pistol, checked the magazine with practiced efficiency, and slipped it into his trench coat.
As he approached the warehouse on foot, the heavy iron side door hung slightly ajar. From inside, the glow of a single kerosene lamp illuminated a figure sitting on an upturned wooden crate, smoking a cigarette.
May you like
The figure tilted his head up as Julian’s shoes echoed on the wet concrete. The face was older, scarred, but unmistakably the brother he had buried three years ago.
""You're late, Julian,"" Victor said, exhaling a thick plume of smoke.
