Chapter 7 - The Broadcast
The voice of the estate’s master resonated through the courtyards, the stables, the manicured hedge mazes, and the perimeter guard stations. Down in the valley, the sound bounced off the stone walls of the river basin, carrying Arthur's dying testimony into the sleepy suburban night.
Inside the bedroom, the heavy oak doors splintered with a brutal crack. Donald wasn't just throwing his weight now; he was using an iron breaching sledge from the estate's maintenance shed.
CRACK.
Grace backed away from the intercom box. She knew the broadcast was buying her minutes, not hours. The municipal guards at the gatehouse were contract workers—some might call the county sheriff, but others were likely already bought by Elena Vance’s financial backers. She couldn't rely on rescue.
The bathroom had a high transom window above the marble shower enclosure, opening onto the steep slate roof of the conservatory below. Grace climbed onto the floating marble bench, her wet shoes slipping against the polished stone. She unlatched the heavy iron window catch, groaning as the rusted hinges fought her. A gust of freezing autumn air struck her face, carrying the scent of damp pine and approaching rain.
Below, through the frosted glass roof of the conservatory, she could see the silhouette of the grand foyer.
Arthur’s body was gone.
Grace froze, her hand clamped to the window frame. The crimson stain on the marble floor remained, stark and grotesque beneath the chandelier, but Arthur Whitfield had vanished. Had Donald already moved him? Or had he crawled away?
BANG.
The master bedroom door gave way with a violent crash. Heavy footsteps marched toward the bathroom.
Grace didn't hesitate. She squeezed her torso through the narrow transom window, wriggling out into the cold night air. The slate tiles beneath her were slick with evening dew. She lost her footing instantly, sliding down the six-foot incline before her shoe caught in the copper roof gutter with a sickening jolt that sent pain shooting through her ankle.
She lay flat against the freezing slate, panting, watching the transom window above.
Donald’s head appeared in the opening. In the moonlight, the side of his face was bruised and bloody where the sauté pan had struck him. He looked down at her, his eyes flat, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy. He raised the suppressed pistol, pointing the barrel directly at her forehead.
""End of the line, Grace,"" he whispered.
A sudden, sharp crack echoed from below the conservatory glass. Donald’s eyes widened in shock. A dark hole blossomed through the center of his tactical vest from behind. He slumped forward, his pistol slipping from his fingers and clattering down the slate roof past Grace, tumbling into the darkness below.
May you like
Donald’s heavy body folded over the window frame, lifeless.
Grace looked down through the skylight in sheer disbelief. Standing on the balcony overlooking the foyer, gripping a vintage double-barreled shotgun from the study's gun cabinet, was Arthur Whitfield. His dress shirt was drenched in blood, his knees trembling violently, but his eyes were wide and burning with primal fury.
