Chapter 7 - THE ALARM
I threw myself sideways just as the iron poker slammed into the red leather chair, tearing a massive gash through the upholstery. The impact sent a shockwave up Ethan’s arm, making him stumble backward for a split second.
It was all the time I needed.
I scrambled over the mahogany desk, knocking over a heavy crystal lamp. It shattered on the floor, sending glass flying across the Persian rug.
“You can’t run, Sarah!” Ethan snarled, recovering his balance. He kicked the desk chair out of his way, stalking toward me.
I backed into the corner of the room, my hands blindly searching the wall behind me.
“You think you’re so smart,” Ethan laughed, splashing a heavy arc of gasoline from the canister onto the floor between us. The overwhelming stench of fuel filled the room, burning my eyes and lungs. “You always thought you were better than me just because you worked hard. But hard work is for peasants, Sarah. Winners take what they want.”
He pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket. The same lighter Dad had given him for his twenty-first birthday.
He flicked it open. The small orange flame illuminated his twisted, manic smile.
“Say hi to Grandma for me,” Ethan whispered, preparing to drop the lighter into the puddle of gasoline.
My fingers finally found what they were looking for on the wall.
The glass cover of the emergency fire alarm box Dad had installed to lower the estate’s insurance premiums.
I didn't hesitate. I ripped the heavy heel off my graduation shoe and smashed it backward into the glass.
The glass shattered, cutting my hand, but I grabbed the red lever and pulled it down with all my strength.
Instantly, a deafening, piercing siren erupted through the entire house. Strobe lights mounted on the ceiling began flashing a blinding white.
But it wasn't just an alarm. It was an industrial-grade fire suppression system.
Before Ethan could drop the lighter, the ceiling sprinklers engaged. But they didn't spray water. They sprayed a thick, suffocating cloud of white chemical fire retardant.
The heavy foam blasted downward, instantly burying the lighter, the gasoline, and Ethan in a blinding white fog.
Ethan screamed in surprise, dropping the iron poker as the chemicals sprayed into his eyes. He clawed at his face, completely blinded, stumbling backward over the shattered lamp.
I didn't wait to see if he recovered.
I dropped to the floor, crawling under the thick cloud of foam, coughing violently as the chemical dust coated my throat. I reached the heavy oak doors, yanked the handles down, and threw myself out into the hallway.
The alarm was deafening. Dad and Abigail were screaming at each other in the foyer, frantically trying to drag their heavy, cash-filled suitcases toward the front door.
When Dad saw me emerge from the office, covered in white foam, he dropped his suitcase.
“Grab her!” Abigail shrieked.
Dad lunged for me.
But he was too late.
The heavy mahogany front doors suddenly burst open, shattering inward with a violent crash.
A team of heavily armed police officers poured into the foyer, their tactical flashlights cutting through the chemical smoke drifting from the office.
“Police! Nobody move! Get your hands on your heads!” the lead officer bellowed, leveling his weapon at my father.
Dad froze, raising his hands slowly, his face draining of all color.
Abigail shrieked, backing against the wall as two officers grabbed her arms, forcing her to her knees.
Ethan stumbled out of the office, his eyes red and streaming tears, holding his hands up in surrender as he coughed up the chemical foam. He was immediately slammed against the wall and handcuffed.
I leaned against the stairwell banister, gasping for clean air, my legs finally giving out from the adrenaline crash.
As the officers secured my family, a figure walked calmly through the shattered front door.
It was Professor Vance, the head of the university's ethics and law department, accompanied by James, the former company accountant.
James rushed over to me, kneeling by my side. “Are you okay, Sarah? We got your emergency text just in time.”
I nodded weakly, pulling my phone from my pocket. I had sent James my live location the moment I parked my car, telling him that if it stopped moving for more than ten minutes, to call the police.
Professor Vance walked over to my father, who was now kneeling in handcuffs, looking utterly defeated.
“Robert Whitmore,” Vance said, his voice echoing with absolute authority. “You are under arrest for corporate fraud, embezzlement, and the attempted murder of your daughter.”
“She’s lying!” Abigail screamed from the floor, her perfect hair ruined, her face twisted in rage. “She’s a crazy, ungrateful thief! She stole those documents!”
Vance reached into his trench coat and pulled out the mahogany box I had left with James. He opened it and pulled out the offshore banking ledger.
“We have the financial records, Mrs. Whitmore,” Vance said coldly. “We have the forged university documents. And thanks to a micro-SD card Sarah’s grandmother entrusted to the right people, we have high-definition video of your son murdering Eleanor Whitmore.”
Abigail stopped screaming. She looked at Ethan, who was sobbing pathetic, cowardly tears against the wall.
“But the company is ours,” Dad said, a desperate, feral gleam in his eye. “Sarah signed the deeds. She signed her shares over to Ethan. The sale goes through tomorrow morning, and you can't stop it!”
Vance smiled—a sharp, legal smile that held no warmth.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a single piece of heavy parchment paper, stamped with a state notary seal.
“You clearly didn't read the fine print of David Whitmore’s original trust, Robert,” Vance said.
He held the document up so my father could see it.
“The trust stipulated that Sarah could only sign over her shares if the documents were witnessed and notarized by a neutral third party.” Vance pointed to the bottom of the deeds Dad had forced me to sign. “You used your own company notary to stamp these. That is a direct conflict of interest, rendering every single transfer deed you forced her to sign completely null and void.”
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Dad’s eyes widened in sheer horror as the realization hit him. Eight years of manipulating me. Eight years of stealing. All undone by a legal technicality he had been too arrogant to check.
“As of midnight tonight,” Vance announced, looking directly at me with a proud smile, “Sarah Whitmore is the sole owner and acting CEO of Whitmore Medical Corp.”
