Chapter 8 - The Chapel RoadArthur Sterling did not run like a guilty man.
He ran like a king forced from his throne.
Through the old tunnel beneath the mansion, through smoke and dust, through the narrow stone passage his grandfather had once used to smuggle liquor and secrets, Arthur carried a black case against his chest.
Not money.
Not jewelry.
Something worse.
Proof that had survived every fire he had set.
He reached the chapel road exit beneath a rotting wooden door covered in ivy. He shoved it open and climbed into the rain.
His driver was supposed to be waiting.
No car.
No headlights.
No loyal men.
Only the trees.
Arthur’s phone vibrated.
He answered with a snarl.
“Where are you?”
A man’s voice trembled. “Sir, the roads are blocked. Police everywhere. The airport is locked down. They’re saying federal agents—”
Arthur hung up.
For thirty years, men had taken his calls.
Tonight, they were letting them ring.
He started toward the old chapel, where he kept one last vehicle hidden. Helena had hated that chapel. She said it was cursed because too many Sterling men had prayed there after committing sins they had no intention of confessing.
Arthur had laughed at her.
Now he moved toward it in the rain.
Behind him, branches snapped.
Arthur turned.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
He reached inside his coat and pulled out a small pistol.
A figure stepped from the trees.
Maya Cross, the investigative journalist.
Arthur almost laughed.
“You?”
Maya wore a raincoat, her camera bag across her shoulder, her face calm.
“Helena said you’d come here.”
Arthur pointed the gun.
“You should have stayed behind your little keyboard.”
Maya lifted both hands.
“I’m live, Arthur.”
Arthur stopped.
Maya tapped the tiny camera pinned beneath her collar.
“Millions are watching.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“You think people care about truth? They care about spectacle.”
Maya’s eyes did not move.
“Then give them one.”
Police sirens approached in the distance.
Arthur looked toward the chapel.
Maya followed his gaze.
“What’s in there?”
Arthur smiled.
“My freedom.”
He fired one shot into the ground near her feet.
Maya flinched but did not fall.
Arthur ran.
Inside the chapel, the air smelled of dust and old wood. He crossed to the altar and pulled back the red carpet.
A trapdoor waited beneath it.
He opened it.
The black case slipped from his hand.
Because the space below was empty.
The box was gone.
Arthur stared.
Then he heard a child’s voice behind him.
“I moved it.”
Arthur turned.
Clara stood in the chapel doorway, soaked with rain, holding her mother’s hand.
Vivian’s face was pale but unafraid.
May you like
Arthur whispered, “No.”
Clara said, “Grandma taught me how to beat you.”
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