Chapter 10 - THE HOUSE OF SECRETSThe crawl space was suffocatingly tight.
Water rushed past my knees and chest, freezing cold, as I dragged myself forward inch by inch. My right shoulder screamed with every movement, the scar tissue tearing slightly under the immense physical strain, but I pushed through the agony, focusing entirely on the rhythmic sound of my own breathing.
In. Out. Move.
After fifty yards of brutal crawling, the pipe angled upward, terminating at a heavy iron grate beneath the estate’s generator shed.
I braced my back against the concrete wall and kicked the grate upward with both feet.
With a loud metallic pop, the rusted latch broke. I pushed the grate aside, hauling myself up onto the dry concrete floor of the generator room.
I lay there for a moment, gasping for air, rainwater dripping from my hair onto the floor.
Outside, the steady drone of the diesel generator drowned out the sound of my movement. I pulled the pistol from my belt, checked the magazine—three rounds left—and cracked open the door of the shed.
The estate's back lawn stretched out before me, pristine and immaculate, illuminated by the floodlights mounted on the roof of the main mansion.
Standing on the back patio, under the shelter of the glass awning, was my mother.
She was still wearing her royal blue evening dress, holding a porcelain teacup with both hands, staring blankly out at the rain. She looked smaller than I remembered, stripped of the grand stage of the Naval Club.
I slipped out of the shed, keeping low behind the boxwood hedges until I reached the terrace steps.
"Mom," I whispered from the darkness.
She flinched, nearly dropping her cup. She turned slowly, her pale eyes widening as she saw me standing in the rain—soaked, covered in mud and blood, holding a weapon.
"Caroline," she breathed, her voice barely audible over the rain. "What have you done?"
"What have I done?" I asked, stepping onto the dry tiles of the terrace. "Mom, Dad and Evan are involved in military corruption. People died."
She didn't look surprised. She simply took a slow sip of her tea, her hands perfectly steady.
"Your father built this life for us, Caroline," she said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. "Do you have any idea what it took to build Harrington Maritime? The sacrifices? The compromises?"
"He lied to the Navy, Mom! He put broken equipment on active warships!"
"He protected our future!" she snapped, a flash of sudden anger breaking through her calm facade. "He protected this family! And you... you came home tonight like a ghost, trying to tear down everything we spent forty years building!"
I stared at her, feeling a cold weight settle in my stomach.
"You knew," I whispered. "You knew all along."
"Of course I knew," she said coldly, setting her teacup down on the wrought-iron table. "A wife knows where her husband's money comes from. Now give me that drive before your father comes downstairs."
"Where is he?" I demanded.
"In his study," a voice answered from the double French doors leading into the house.
Dad stepped out onto the terrace.
May you like
He wasn't wearing his tuxedo jacket anymore. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair disheveled, a heavy black revolver held loosely in his right hand.
"Hello, Captain," Dad said, his eyes cold and hollow. "Welcome home."
Related Stories
