SHADOWS BENEATH THE MARBLE HEIRS

Grace struck Elena Vance with the force of a desperate freight train, tackling the taller woman off Arthur’s chest. The two women crashed onto the parquet floor, rolling across the Persian runners.

Elena was remarkably strong, trained in hand-to-hand combat far beyond the capabilities of the pampered socialite she was impersonating. She brought her elbow back sharply, catching Grace across the cheekbone. White sparks burst behind Grace’s eyes, the taste of copper flooding her mouth. Elena scrambled on top of her, pinning Grace’s shoulders with her knees, her manicured hands closing around Grace's throat.

""You should have taken the two million,"" Elena snarled, her face inches away, her pupils dilated with pure malice. ""Now you die for a corpse.""

Grace couldn't breathe. Her hands clawed at Elena’s wrists, but the grip was like forged steel. Her vision began to dim at the edges, the crystal chandelier overhead blurring into a swirling halo of white fire.

Arthur’s phone had slipped from Grace’s pocket during the impact and lay on the floor three feet away. The screen had lit up again. The automated emergency protocol Arthur had initiated earlier had finally triggered the external alert: St. Jude’s Medical Transport: Route Cancelled. Federal Marshals Dispatched.

Elena saw the screen. Her eyes flared with panic. For a split second, her grip slackened as she realized the entire apparatus protecting her operation had collapsed.

It was the only opening Grace needed.

Grace reached down with her left hand, finding the heavy bronze Winston Churchill bust that had caused the diversion earlier. Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal head. With a feral scream born of pure survival, Grace swung the bronze upward, slamming it into Elena’s temple.

The impact produced a sickening, dull crack.

Elena’s eyes rolled back instantly. She slumped sideways, completely unconscious, her limp body collapsing across Grace’s legs.

Grace shoved the dead weight off her chest, coughing violently, drawing ragged, burning breaths into her starved lungs. She dragged herself across the floor to Arthur, who was lying flat on his back, his chest barely moving, his pulse fluttering like a dying moth beneath his jawline.

""Mr. Whitfield,"" Grace croaked, pressing her hands against the wound on his temple. ""Stay with me. The sirens... do you hear them?""

In the far distance, cutting through the autumn wind, the high-pitched wail of multi-agency sirens began to climb the winding mountain road toward the estate.

Arthur’s eyes opened a fraction. He looked at Grace, his vision clearing for just a heartbeat. His bloody hand rose trembling from the floor, not grasping for his phone, not reaching for his wealth, but weakly resting against Grace’s trembling fingers.