Chapter 3 - The Phantom in the Mansion
The storm that had been brewing all afternoon finally broke over Pinecrest Heights, unleashing a torrential downpour that battered the massive windows of the Warren estate. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the sprawling gothic architecture of the mansion.
Spencer returned home with Charlee, who was exhausted and asleep in the back of his armored Maybach. He carried his niece inside, handing her over to Mrs. Mabel, the loyal housekeeper.
"Put her in the east wing guest room, Mabel. Lock the doors. Do not let anyone on that floor," Spencer ordered, handing his soaked trench coat to a butler.
"Right away, Mr. Warren. And the baby?" Mrs. Mabel asked, gesturing to the nursery they had hastily set up earlier that day. Dexter was fast asleep in a pristine crib, closely monitored by a private pediatric nurse Spencer had hired at triple her usual rate.
"Keep the guard on the door," Spencer said. "Where is Richard?"
"Your brother arrived an hour ago, sir. He is in the billiards room, enjoying a scotch."
Spencer’s jaw tightened. He walked down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway, the sound of his Italian leather shoes echoing like a ticking clock. He paused outside the heavy oak doors of the billiards room, taking a deep breath to compose himself. If he confronted Richard now without absolute proof of Jocelyn's whereabouts, Richard would bury the evidence—and Jocelyn—forever. He had to play the game.
Spencer pushed the doors open.
Richard Warren stood by the vintage pool table, casually lining up a shot. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored vest, his hair perfectly coiffed, a crystal glass of amber liquid resting on the edge of the table. He looked up and offered a bright, charismatic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Spencer! There you are. Mabel told me the most bizarre story," Richard chuckled, taking his shot. The cue ball cracked sharply against the red solid, sinking it into the corner pocket. "She said some homeless urchin dumped a trash bag baby on your porch, and you actually kept it. I know you've been lonely in this massive museum of a house, little brother, but adopting stray humans is a bit extreme, don't you think?"
Spencer walked over to the wet bar, pouring himself a bourbon to hide the trembling of his hands. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to wrap his hands around his brother's throat and choke the truth out of him.
"It wasn't a stray, Richard," Spencer said casually, taking a sip. The liquid burned down his throat, grounding him. "The baby is mine. My biological son."
Richard’s pool cue slipped, scratching the green felt of the table. For a microsecond, genuine panic flashed across his face, but he masked it instantly with a booming laugh. "Yours? Spencer, you had that radiation therapy twelve years ago. You’re sterile. Is this a joke?"
"No joke," Spencer lied smoothly, turning to face his brother. "A woman dropped him off with a letter and a DNA test from a private clinic. It seems one of my old frozen samples from before the treatment was used. It’s a miracle, really. I’m a father."
Richard carefully placed his pool cue down. The friendly facade was beginning to crack, revealing the cold, calculating predator beneath. "A father. Well. That certainly complicates the succession of the company, doesn't it? Have you found the mother?"
"Not yet," Spencer said, walking closer to Richard. He watched his brother’s eyes track his every movement. "But I have my private investigators looking into it. Whoever put my son in a garbage bag is going to spend the rest of their miserable life rotting in a federal supermax prison. Wouldn't you agree, Richard?"
"Absolutely," Richard swallowed hard, picking up his scotch. "They deserve no less."
"I'm glad we are on the same page," Spencer smiled a terrifying, hollow smile. "I'm throwing a formal dinner tomorrow night. The entire board of directors will be here. I'll be officially announcing Dexter as my heir, and Charlee as my newly discovered niece and ward. I expect you to make a toast."
Spencer didn't wait for a reply. He walked out of the room, leaving Richard alone in the dim light.
The moment Spencer was out of sight, he pulled out his phone and pulled up the mansion's hidden security network—a secondary, encrypted system he had installed years ago that not even the estate manager knew about. He tuned into the hidden microphone in the billiards room.
He listened as glass shattered against the wall. Richard had thrown his drink.
"Get the car ready," Richard’s frantic voice hissed into a cell phone. "The idiot is adopting them both. The plan failed. The baby survived. Go down to the hunting lodge on the edge of the property and make sure the Cooper woman is still restrained. We have to finish this tonight."
Spencer stopped dead in his tracks in the hallway. The hunting lodge. An abandoned, rustic cabin on the far edge of the fifty-acre estate, practically invisible from the main house. Jocelyn was on the property. The phantom was right in his own backyard.
May you like
Spencer didn't call the police. The local precinct was heavily funded by Richard’s charitable donations. He couldn't trust them. He needed his own men.
He tapped his earpiece, connecting directly to his head of private security, a former Navy SEAL named Vance. "Vance. Gear up. Silent approach. We are raiding the hunting lodge."
