Chapter 20 - the iron gates of lake forest
The midnight fog rolled thick and gray across the shores of Lake Michigan, shrouding the ancient oaks along Sheridan Road in spectral stillness. Roman’s armored black sedan slipped silently past the stone perimeter walls of the Lake Forest district, its headlights dimmed to minimal amber slits.
Through the passenger window, Clara watched the towering wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate emerge from the mist like jagged teeth. Once a beacon of old-money opulence, the property now stood decaying in the gloom. The sprawling brick mansion beyond the iron pickets rose against the cloudy sky, completely dark except for a single faint amber light glowing in a second-story dormer window.
"The main gate has a remote pressure sensor," Roman remarked in a low, measured voice, checking the dashboard telemetry. "The circuit is completely dead. Someone cut the hardline from the power grid fifteen minutes ago."
"They're waiting for us inside," Clara said, feeling her heart pound a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She gripped the antique key in her coat pocket until the metal cut into her palm.
Roman brought the vehicle to a stop beneath the weeping branches of a massive willow tree just beyond the estate's blind corner. He cut the engine. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant, rhythmic lap of lake waves crashing against the bluffs.
He turned toward her, checking the sidearm concealed beneath his coat before reaching across to place a warm, reassuring hand over hers. "Stay two steps behind me. If anything moves that shouldn't, you drop to the floor. Understood?"
Clara nodded, drawing a sharp, icy breath of midnight air into her lungs. "I spent my whole life hiding from shadows, Roman. I'm not running anymore."
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They stepped out into the damp cold. Roman guided her through a breach in the rusted side gate where the security cameras hung limp and severed from their mounts. Gravel crunched softly under their boots as they moved along the curving carriage path, the grand front entrance looming closer with every stride.
When they reached the towering mahogany front doors, Clara stopped dead in her tracks. The heavy double doors were already unlatched, resting slightly ajar in the dark breeze. Nailed directly onto the polished wood at eye level was an antique silver hairclip that Clara recognized instantly. It belonged to her childhood dressing room.
