Chapter 6 - THE RACE UPSTAIRS
I jammed the key into the heavy iron lock.
It turned with a loud, grating click. I threw my weight against the cage door, bursting out of the reserve.
I didn't have a flashlight. I didn't care. I ran blindly through the cellar, trailing my hand along the wooden wine racks to guide me, praying I wouldn't trip over a dropped crate in the pitch black.
I hit the stone stairs at a sprint, taking them two at a time.
I shoved the heavy cellar door open.
The bright light of the hallway blinded me for a second. The music from the main ballroom was deafening now—a string quartet playing something overly cheerful.
I wiped dirt and sweat from my face and ran toward Margaret's private office in the east wing.
As I rounded the corner, I collided hard with someone.
Adrian.
He caught me by the shoulders to keep us both from falling.
“Clara! I’ve been looking everywhere. I lost the connection. What happened?”
“Your mother,” I gasped, clutching his lapels. “She’s poisoning Serena and Richard. Right now. In her office.”
Adrian stared at me, his eyes wide. “What? That’s insane.”
“She killed your father, Adrian. She and Vance. Vance prepared the bottles, but she ordered it. She just confessed to me in the cellar. We have to stop them from drinking!”
I didn't wait for him to process it. I pulled away and sprinted down the hall.
Adrian was right behind me.
We reached the heavy double doors of Margaret's office. They were locked.
“Mother!” Adrian yelled, pounding his fist against the wood. “Open the door!”
No answer.
“Stand back,” Adrian said.
He took three steps back and drove his shoulder into the door. The wood splintered, but the lock held. He hit it again. And again. On the third try, the doorframe cracked, and we burst into the room.
It was empty.
The room was immaculate. The fire was roaring in the hearth.
But on the mahogany desk sat two crystal wine glasses.
They were completely empty, save for the dark red residue at the bottom.
Next to them was an empty bottle of 1982 Château Margaux.
The wax seal on the cork was broken. It bore the heavy silver crest.
“No,” I whispered, staring at the empty glasses. We were too late.
Adrian rushed to the desk, picking up the bottle. He smelled it.
“Where are they?” he panicked.
I looked around the room. There was no sign of a struggle. No bodies. If they had drunk it, the poison should have acted fast.
Then I noticed the side door that led out to the estate’s massive terrace. It was cracked open, cold wind blowing the curtains.
We ran out onto the terrace.
Below us, the gravel driveway was chaotic.
The valets were running. Guests were spilling out of the front doors in a panic.
And lying on the gravel, beside a black town car, were two bodies.
Serena in her red dress. Her father, Richard, beside her.
Paramedics were already swarming them, pumping their chests, shouting orders.
“Serena!” Adrian yelled, vaulting over the low terrace wall and running toward the driveway.
I followed him down the stairs.
When we reached the crowd, Vance was standing there, his face pale, watching the paramedics load Serena onto a stretcher.
Margaret was standing beside him. Her expression was a mask of perfect, rehearsed shock.
Adrian grabbed Vance by the collar, slamming the attorney against the side of the town car.
“What did you do?!” Adrian roared.
Vance threw his hands up. “I didn't do anything! They just collapsed on their way to the car!”
Margaret stepped forward, gently touching Adrian's arm. “Adrian, please. The guests are watching.”
Adrian looked at his mother. The horror dawning in his eyes as he realized what I had told him was true.
“You,” he whispered to her.
Before Margaret could answer, a paramedic yelled out.
“We have a pulse on the girl! She’s barely holding on. The man is gone. Time of death, 10:14 PM.”
Richard was dead.
Margaret looked at me over Adrian's shoulder. Her eyes were cold, triumphant.
She had eliminated her blackmailer.
But as I looked at the broken wax seal I had pocketed from the desk upstairs, a terrifying thought hit me.
There were six bottles.
One killed the husband. One I poured out. One killed Richard. One was for the Judge.
That left two.
Margaret's and Adrian's.
But Vance was the one who made the bottles. Vance was the one who kept the ledger.
I looked at Vance, who was staring at Margaret with a mixture of fear and something else.
Betrayal.
May you like
Vance didn't know she was going to use it tonight.
Which meant Margaret didn't have total control.
