Chapter 7 - THE CONFRONTATION AMONG THE CLOCKS
The sound of a hundred ticking clocks suddenly felt like a chorus of counting down seconds.
Julian Vance stepped protectively in front of the leather ledger on the counter, his hands gripping the edge of the glass display case. "This is private property. Get out of my shop."
Bryce stepped inside, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his designer jacket. He didn't look like the panicked teenager from the cafeteria anymore; he looked confident, shielded by the three corporate security guards who towered over the elderly repairman.
"Nice antique shop, old man," Bryce said, his eyes scanning the shelves before fixing on Arthur and Ethan. "Too bad it's about to experience a terrible accident. A short circuit in the wiring, perhaps. Very tragic."
Arthur stepped in front of Ethan, his voice cold and steady. "You're trespassing, Bryce. And bringing your father's thugs into this won't change what's inside that ledger."
Bryce laughed—a sharp, arrogant sound that echoed off the brass clock faces. "My dad already knows you're here. In fact, he sent me to pick up what belongs to us. Hand over the book, Arthur, and maybe we won't have the police pay your rental house another visit."
"You didn't come here just for the book, did you?" Ethan challenged, stepping out from behind his father. "You're scared. Because you know that once this ledger goes public, your family's entire foundation collapses."
Bryce's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, revealing the insecure, desperate kid beneath the expensive clothes. "Shut up, Mop Boy. You're nothing. Your dad is a glorified servant who scrubs floors for a living. You don't belong in our world."
"Being a custodian means my father works for an honest living," Ethan fired back, stepping closer. "Your father built his empire on extortion and bought silence. There's a big difference."
Bryce lunged forward, the frustration finally breaking his composure, but the largest of the three security guards caught him by the shoulder, pulling him back.
"Easy, Mr. Harrington," the guard warned in a low, gravelly voice. "Let us handle the trash."
The guard stepped toward the counter, cracking his knuckles. Julian Vance reached slowly beneath the counter, his hand closing around an old-fashioned brass wrench, but before anyone could move, a sudden, piercing sound filled the shop.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Every single grandfather clock in the room began striking simultaneously, their heavy chimes ringing out across the quiet street outside.
At the same instant, the front window of the shop flashed with the bright red and blue lights of arriving patrol cars. Not Westbrook local police—state troopers, their cruisers pulling up directly behind the security guards' unmarked vehicles.
Julian Vance lowered the wrench and smiled. "I wired the silent alarm to the state police barracks six years ago, right after my brother passed. Thought it might come in handy one day."
Color drained entirely from Bryce's face. He spun around toward the door just as two state troopers pushed it open, their hands resting on their holstered sidearms.
"Stay right where you are," the lead trooper ordered, his eyes sweeping the room before fixing on the security guards. "State police. Nobody moves."
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Bryce panicked, lunging across the counter to grab the leather ledger, but Ethan moved faster, shoving the heavy book into his father's hands and grabbing Bryce's wrist, pinning him against the glass display case.
"Leave it alone, Bryce," Ethan said, looking him straight in the eye. "The time for hiding is over."
