Chapter 10 - Blood on the Patio
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the whistling gale pouring through the jagged glass of the attic window. Chloe remained curled on the cold floor, her hands trembling violently against the rough pine boards. Susan stood frozen over the sill, her chest heaving, clutching the splintered leg of the wooden easel like a spear. Her face was pale as marble, blood trickling from a cut along her hairline.
Neither of them spoke for what felt like an eternity.
Slowly, dragging her limbs as if they were made of lead, Chloe pulled herself up and crept toward the window. She forced herself to look down.
Forty feet below, illuminated by the harsh white beam of the motion-activated floodlights, Arthur lay motionless on the flagstones of the patio. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle, the charcoal navy suit stark against the pale stone. A dark pool was already beginning to spread slowly beneath his head. He wasn't moving.
""He's dead,"" Susan whispered, her voice devoid of emotion, hollow and flat. ""He has to be.""
Chloe couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight of her father. The man who had tucked her into bed, who had read her fairy tales, who had murdered her mother for corporate bonds and a mansion on a hill. A wave of nausea hit her so violently she had to turn away and dry-heave against the attic wall.
Susan dropped the easel leg. It hit the floor with a loud clatter that seemed to snap her out of her stupor. Her eyes darted around the attic, landing on the open steel lockbox, the crumpled papers, the trash bags. A terrifying new spark ignited behind her dark pupils—not panic, but cold, calculating survival.
""Listen to me, Chloe,"" Susan said, her voice dropping into a sharp, urgent whisper as she crossed the room toward her. She grabbed Chloe by the shoulders, her grip tight and bruising. ""We are in this together now. You saw what happened. It was self-defense. He was trying to push you out the window, and I stopped him.""
Chloe stared at her stepmother, the fog in her brain slowly clearing. ""You... you pushed him.""
""Because he was going to kill you!"" Susan snapped, shaking her slightly. ""The police will understand that! But you have to back up my story. If you tell them I hit him from behind with the easel, they will charge me with second-degree murder. And who do you think inherits this estate if we both go down? The state! Everything your mother built will be auctioned off to developers!""
Chloe looked at Susan's hands gripping her sweater. The same emerald blouse, the same manicured nails that had dragged her down the front hall an hour ago. Susan wasn't trying to protect Eleanor's legacy; she was already calculating her defense, maneuvering to position herself as the tragic heroine who had saved the orphaned stepdaughter.
""Get your hands off me,"" Chloe said, her voice dropping into a steady, dangerous whisper.
Susan hesitated, surprised by the sudden steel in the young girl’s tone, and slowly released her grip.
""We need to call 911,"" Chloe said, stepping around Susan toward the stairwell. ""Right now.""
""Wait!"" Susan called after her, following close on her heels as they descended the narrow stairs into the warmth of the second floor. ""We need to get our stories straight before the sirens arrive! Where is the revolver, Chloe? Did you see where the gun landed?""
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Chloe reached the second-floor landing and stopped. The revolver was lying on the dark runner rug just outside Arthur’s bedroom. But beside the gun lay something else—the white envelope Arthur had shoved into his jacket before the fight. It had slipped from his pocket when he tumbled down the stairs.
Eleanor's letter.
