Chapter 6 - The Glass Floor
01:28.
The tension in the sanctuary was taut enough to snap steel. Arthur Vance stood with the black revolver held in an unyielding two-handed grip, aiming straight between Evelyn’s violet eyes. But the utter lack of fear on the bandaged woman’s face caused a flicker of hesitation in his finger.
“What are you waiting for, Arthur?” Evelyn taunted, her raspy voice echoing off the stained-glass arches. “You’ve murdered before. You had my mother poisoned when she threatened to expose your offshore tax havens fifteen years ago. You had our yacht incinerated. A single bullet should be easy for a titan like you.”
“You're bluffing about the floor,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, though his eyes darted nervously down to the glossy marble.
“Test it,” Evelyn replied coldly. “The detonator isn't wired to explosives, you arrogant old bastard. Do you really think I smuggled seventy pounds of military-grade C4 into the heart of the Hamptons past your private security dogs?”
Arthur’s eyes widened.
“Then what is on your chest?” Julian cried from the vestry doorway.
“A simple frequency transmitter,” Evelyn said. She reached into her torn trench coat with her left hand. Arthur flinched, pulling the trigger.
BANG.
The gunshot exploded inside the glass chapel like thunder. Victoria shrieked, clamping her hands over her ears.
The bullet struck Evelyn’s left shoulder. Fabric tore, and dark blood blossomed instantly across the white hospital gown, but the bandaged woman didn't fall. She merely swayed, staggering back half a step, a wet, ragged breath tearing from her throat.
“Evelyn!” Victoria screamed, almost stepping off the pedestal before catching herself.
Evelyn looked down at her bleeding shoulder, then looked back up at Arthur, her eyes burning with terrifying triumph. “You missed the heart, Arthur. Bad aim for a decorated veteran.”
In her uninjured hand, she held up a small, sleek black remote control—not a detonator, but a commercial crane-control interface.
“You forgot who designed the Vance Conservatory,” Evelyn whispered, coughing up a spatter of dark blood that stained her lower bandages. “I did. Before you had me killed, I spent eighteen months engineering every steel strut and support cable in this building. Including the central support for the great chandelier.”
Arthur looked up in sheer horror.
Suspended sixty feet directly above Arthur and Julian hung the ten-ton, custom-crafted Venetian crystal chandelier—a massive web of iron framing and thousands of pounds of sharp, heavy glass.
“The timer on my chest isn't a bomb,” Evelyn said, her thumb resting on the yellow toggle switch of the remote. “It’s the countdown to the automated magnetic release. Forty-five seconds until the main winch disengages.”
00:42.
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“Julian! Run!” Arthur roared, abandoning all composure and lunging toward the side exit.
Julian scrambled across the altar steps, his polished shoes slipping on the crushed white roses. But Evelyn was already moving. Despite her barefoot strides and bleeding shoulder, she threw herself across the chancel with terrifying speed, wrapping her bandaged arms around Julian’s neck, dragging him violently backward into the center of the hall, directly beneath the swaying mountain of glass.
