Chapter 6 - THE HOUSE WITH THE RED DOOR
Eleanor took the receipt from my trembling hand. Her eyes scanned her brother’s signature, and for a fleeting second, the matriarch looked incredibly old.
“Harrison,” she whispered, the betrayal carving a deep line across her forehead. “My own brother. The chief of medicine at Mount Sinai. He’s been supplying Victor with the drugs to keep Sarah subdued.”
She crushed the receipt in her fist, her sorrow instantly hardening into something sharp and dangerous. “They’ve been working together. Harrison funds his gambling debts through Victor’s embezzlement, and Victor uses Harrison’s medical authority to make problems disappear.”
Eleanor grabbed the ledger and the photograph, shoving them into her designer handbag. She grabbed my hand. “We have two hours left, Lily. If Victor realizes we bypassed his men and know where the summer house is, he won’t wait for the ransom. He’ll bury your mother tonight.”
We ran out of Grand Central, the cold wind hitting us like a physical wall. The unmarked maintenance car was still running at the curb.
Eleanor threw the car into gear, and we merged onto the FDR Drive, speeding north.
The drive to Montauk took nearly two hours. The city lights faded, replaced by the dark, winding coastal roads of Long Island. The snow began to fall heavier, coating the windshield in a thick white haze. The heater blasted, but I couldn't stop shivering. I held the torn cashmere coat tightly around me, praying my mother was still breathing.
“What happens when we get there?” I asked, my voice small in the dark car. “Victor has men with guns. We just have a ledger.”
Eleanor didn’t take her eyes off the treacherous road. “We have more than a ledger, Lily. We have leverage. Victor’s entire empire is built on the illusion of my approval. If the board finds out he defrauded the family trust, he loses everything. He’s a coward. Cowards break when you threaten their money.”
Finally, the car turned down a long, unpaved driveway flanked by towering, skeletal pine trees. The ocean roared in the distance, a violent, crashing sound against the cliffs.
At the end of the driveway stood the Victorian house. It looked exactly like the photograph. Peeling white paint, dark windows, and a heavy, blood-red front door.
There were no cars in the driveway. No guards standing outside.
It was too quiet.
Eleanor parked the car behind a thick thicket of bushes. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a heavy steel tire iron.
“Stay close behind me,” she ordered.
We crept up the wooden porch steps. The wood groaned under our weight. Eleanor didn't bother trying the doorknob. She swung the tire iron and smashed the glass pane next to the door, reaching in to unlock the deadbolt.
The door creaked open.
The inside of the house smelled of dust, sea salt, and something sharp and clinical. Like bleach.
We moved through the darkened hallway. The furniture was covered in white sheets, making the living room look like a graveyard of ghosts.
“Mommy?” I whispered, my voice echoing in the empty space.
No answer.
We reached the back of the house, where the old conservatory used to be. The heavy oak doors were closed. A faint strip of yellow light leaked out from underneath.
Eleanor gripped the tire iron tightly. She pushed the doors open.
The conservatory had been stripped of its plants. In the center of the room, under a harsh fluorescent overhead light, was a steel medical bed. An IV stand stood next to it, a half-empty bag of clear fluid dripping through a plastic tube.
The bed was unmade. The sheets were twisted and stained with a terrifying amount of blood.
But the bed was empty.
“No,” I choked out, running toward it. “Mommy!”
I touched the mattress. It was still warm. She had been here minutes ago.
I looked down at the pillow. Resting on the blood-stained fabric was a delicate silver rosary.
I picked it up, my hands shaking violently. “This is hers. She never takes this off. Never. She said it was the only thing that kept her safe.”
Eleanor stared at the blood on the sheets, her face devoid of color. “They moved her. Victor must have been tipped off by the men at the station. They rushed her out the back.”
“Is she dead?” I screamed, tears flooding my face. “Did he kill her?”
“No,” a calm, chilling voice echoed from the doorway behind us.
Eleanor and I spun around.
Standing in the doorway was a man in his late sixties, wearing a tailored cashmere overcoat. He looked remarkably like Eleanor, with the same piercing blue eyes and aristocratic posture.
It was Dr. Harrison Sterling. My great-uncle.
He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a medical syringe filled with a milky white liquid.
“She isn't dead yet, Lily,” Harrison said, his voice terrifyingly gentle. “But she is heavily sedated. She’s in the trunk of my car out back. Victor is preparing a boat at the docks. We are going to take Sarah for a very long ride into the Atlantic.”
Eleanor raised the tire iron, stepping in front of me. “Harrison. If you hurt that woman, I will destroy you. I will strip your medical license, take your fortune, and watch you rot in federal prison.”
Harrison sighed, stepping into the room.
“You can’t destroy me, Eleanor. Because you aren’t leaving this room.”
He held up the syringe. “This is potassium chloride. It stops the heart instantly. It leaves almost no trace. The coroner will rule that the great Eleanor Sterling, under the stress of an assault at Grand Central, suffered a massive, fatal heart attack at her abandoned summer home.”
“You’re a monster,” Eleanor spat.
“I am a pragmatist,” Harrison countered, taking a slow step toward her. “Arthur’s widow was a liability. This child is a liability. Victor was clumsy, but his vision was correct. The Sterling fortune belongs to the strong.”
He lunged forward.
Eleanor swung the tire iron, but Harrison was faster. He caught her wrist, twisting it violently until she cried out, the heavy metal bar clattering to the wooden floor. He shoved her backward against the medical bed.
“Grandma!” I screamed.
Harrison pinned Eleanor to the mattress, uncapping the syringe with his teeth.
“Say hello to Arthur for me, sister,” Harrison whispered, pressing the needle toward her neck.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed the heavy metal IV pole next to the bed and shoved it as hard as my nine-year-old body could manage.
The heavy steel base of the pole slammed directly into the back of Harrison’s knees.
His leg buckled. He lost his balance, stumbling sideways.
The needle missed Eleanor’s neck, plunging deep into the thick mattress.
Before Harrison could recover, Eleanor grabbed the broken glass pitcher sitting on the bedside table and smashed it across the side of her brother’s head.
Harrison collapsed to the floor, unconscious, blood pooling in his silver hair.
Eleanor stood over him, panting heavily, her dress torn. She looked at me.
“Are you okay?” she gasped.
I nodded, gripping the silver rosary in my fist. “He said Mommy is in the car.”
“Let’s go,” Eleanor said, grabbing the keys from Harrison’s coat pocket.
We ran out the back door into the freezing storm. A black luxury SUV was parked near the cliff's edge. Eleanor unlocked it. I ripped open the trunk.
My mother was inside.
Her wrists and ankles were bound with zip ties. Her face was bruised, and her eyes were rolled back, fighting against the heavy sedatives. But she was breathing.
“Mommy!” I sobbed, crawling into the trunk and throwing my arms around her freezing body.
Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at me, confusion and terror fighting the drugs in her system. “Lily? Baby… how?”
“I’ve got you,” I cried.
Eleanor appeared beside the trunk, a knife from the kitchen in her hand. She quickly cut the thick plastic ties binding Sarah’s wrists.
Sarah looked up, and for the first time in nine years, locked eyes with her mother-in-law.
Eleanor fell to her knees in the snow. She reached out and grabbed Sarah’s bruised hand, pressing it to her cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” Eleanor wept, the proud matriarch completely broken. “I’m so sorry I didn't believe you. I’m so sorry I failed Arthur.”
Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. She squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “You’re here now.”
Suddenly, the roar of a massive engine tore through the storm.
High beams washed over us, blindingly bright.
A heavy, military-grade truck slammed through the wooden gate of the driveway, skidding to a halt blocking the SUV.
The doors flew open.
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Victor stepped out, holding a shotgun. And behind him were four armed men.
We were trapped.
