Chapter 2 - The Echoes of the Pastt

"Leo, hide," Eleanor commanded, her voice dropping into a deadly calm. She shoved the lockbox of evidence into a heavy canvas duffel bag and kicked it under a tarp. "Get into the loft. Do not make a sound, no matter what happens."

The boy scrambled up the wooden ladder into the rafters just as the heavy wooden doors of the boathouse burst open.

Richard stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the headlights of the SUVs. Four armed security contractors fanned out behind him. The fake, loving husband was gone entirely. He looked like a cornered wolf—feral, desperate, and heavily armed.

"You really made me work for this, Ellie," Richard said, stepping into the dusty room. He pulled a suppressed pistol from his jacket. "I tracked the GPS on Thomas's phone. The old fool tried to throw it in a river, but my guys got to him first."

Eleanor’s heart stopped. "If you hurt Thomas..."

"Oh, he's fine. Just tied up," Richard sneered. He looked at Eleanor, taking in the fact that she was standing upright, holding a cane, looking fiercely back at him. "I have to admit, I'm shocked. The doctors swore your spine was intact, but I was so sure you were broken mentally. I guess the little street rat jogged your memory."

"He's Sarah's son," Eleanor said, her voice echoing in the hollow room.

Richard chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "I know. My men finally tracked down Sarah's grave. It’s a shame. If you had just stayed in that chair, playing the pathetic cripple, you could have lived a long, comfortable life. But now? I'm afraid there's going to be a terrible tragedy. A murder-suicide at the old summer home."

He raised the gun, pointing it squarely at Eleanor's chest.

"Where is the boy, Eleanor? And where is the evidence?"

Eleanor didn't flinch. She let go of the cane. She stood entirely on her own two feet, squaring her shoulders. She looked at the man who had stolen five years of her life, who had murdered her sister, who had tried to play God.

"You're a coward, Richard," she spat. "You always were."

"Goodbye, Eleanor."

Before Richard could pull the trigger, the wail of police sirens pierced the night air. Not just one, but dozens. The screeching of tires echoed from the main road. Red and blue lights exploded through the fog, painting the inside of the boathouse in chaotic colors.

Richard froze, panic overtaking his features.

Eleanor smiled, a cold, predatory grin. "Did you really think I wouldn't upload everything to the FBI before you got here? Thomas's phone was a decoy, Richard. You chased a ghost."

"Kill her!" Richard screamed at his men.

But the contractors, realizing they were surrounded by federal agents, dropped their weapons and put their hands on their heads. They were mercenaries, not martyrs.

Richard let out a roar of frustration and aimed his gun at Eleanor.

BANG!

The gunshot deafened the room. But it wasn't Richard's gun.

Richard dropped his weapon, screaming in agony, gripping his bleeding shoulder. Behind Eleanor, an FBI tactical team swarmed through the side doors, rifles raised, pinning Richard to the dirt floor.